


Something Short and Painful

by JustLikeAPapercut



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gals bein' pals, Maybe it's not love, Multi, Short Stories, Shorts, not quite friends, slightly dented people, smart women who are still idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:13:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLikeAPapercut/pseuds/JustLikeAPapercut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of brief shorts. Arranged by theme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Year Gone

* * *

 

 _Now she's long, long gone._  
_Oh now she's long,_  
_yeah now she's long gone,_  
_like Moses through the corn._

\- The Black Keys, "Long Gone"

* * *

 

 

 

1.

Andy thinks of Miranda Priestly at odd times. Like on the subway, seeing the well dressed woman walking in front of her snap her stiletto heel.

It isn't even a clean break, Andy discovers when the woman holds up the shoe to examine it for herself. Just a sad, jagged tearing of the heel away from the expensive leather pump.

"Are you alright?" Andy asks. But the woman only gives her a haughty look and then ignores her, so Andy hurries onto her train. Tells herself that this overwhelming urge to cry is ridiculous.

 

2.

Emily doesn't see the pattern until Miranda fires the fifth new girl. The fifth girl who brought back steaming hot coffees at miraculous speeds, memorized all of the important names and numbers in the span of a day, and never asked Miranda a single question.

 _Brunettes_ , Emily realizes. Gets a bitter taste in her mouth. _All five of the assistants Miranda's fired have been brunettes_.

The next girl proves fairly incompetent; she asks too many stupid questions of Emily and is hopeless with the phones. But she and her platinum hair stay just the same, and Emily has trouble looking Miranda in the eye for weeks.

 

3.

It's already been more than just a long, bad day when Nigel makes the mistake of uttering that name.

It's been an entire month of Miranda spitting nails about a spread that's been shot twice, and yet still looks like something _Vogue_ would put out.  Plus it's been pouring cold, bitter rain for days. All of the staff scurrying around the city - getting in out and out of cabs laden down with silks and organzas covered in three layers of heavy plastic - only for Miranda to look heavenward in disgust when one out of ten garments turns up wearing the tiniest speckle of rain.  And Nigel _knows_ why that particular name comes out of his mouth when he means to call over to Emily, who's sitting five feet away at her desk. Maybe he doesn't know at the time, but later (at home and with a scotch in his hand) he knows why his mind handed him _that_ _name_. 

Emily's mouth gapes open for a solid second when Nigel calls her 'Andy', although she clamps it shut when they both hear the thud of papers angrily hitting Miranda's desk. Nigel allows himself an uncharacteristic, two-second pity party for himself. Presses his forehead briefly against the nearby wall before announcing that he's going back to his desk.

He feels an irrational amount of anger at Andy Sachs the rest of the day. Hates her for being a coward. Hates her for being brave.

 

4.

Andy doesn't get many days off. So tonight she orders takeout and buys a bottle of not horribly cheap wine. Tells herself that she's earned a night without work or cleaning the apartment or the doing of anything remotely productive.

She eats her curry alone with only the television for company and decides that she just needs to catch up on rest.  Drinks half a glass of her wine and tells herself that this cold, sharp feeling rattling beneath her breastbone is just fatigue piled on top of stress.

 

5.

"Wow, girl," Lilly says when Andy walks in. "You look great!"

Andy doesn't flush at the compliment because she already knows that she looks good. Has the confidence to put together a killer outfit now, sometimes show a little skin now. Often gets dressed and then stands in front of the long mirror in her bathroom, feeling proud.

Feels proud but then, invariably, guilty.

 

6\.  

Miranda comes home to an empty house because the girls are at a sleepover. It's an uncharacteristically early hour for her to arrive home, and the Book won't be here for hours yet, so she dismisses the housekeeper and takes her time eating her dinner. Decides to wash her own plate before making herself a cup of tea using the antique kettle.

She stands over it in her big, spotless kitchen, the floor cold against her nylon covered feet.  Finds it both remarkable and painful that time can still move so slowly, even for her.

 

7.

"Ask your assistant if she'll help us," Cassidy whines.

"I do not think Emily favored history classes," Miranda says and smirks.

"Not _her,_ " Caroline rolls her eyes. "The other one. The one who got us Harry Potter."

"Andrea doesn't work- Girls. . . Girls, I don't-"

But Cassidy cuts off Miranda's flailing reply with a dramatic sigh. "Of course you fired the only _nice_ one," she complains. "Jeez, mom."

Miranda doesn't know how to correct her. Doesn't trust her own voice to ask why they know much of anything about Andrea at all.

 

8.

Andy finally calls Nigel because she's out of reasons why she shouldn't or why she's too busy.

Nigel is the one to suggest lunch, but he's still bitchy and mean when they finally see each other. Maybe Andy should have known that he'd want to punish her - that his friendship would have a huge upfront cost. But she resents his lack of directness; won't abide by the snide comments and the condescending smiles he doles out when she talks about her work.

"I'm sorry you don't want to be friends anymore," Andy sighs at the end of their lunch. "I won't waste your time again."

It takes five days for Nigel to call her, but when she picks up he doesn't even say hello. He just blurts, "I'm not sure I remember how to have friends." And she could say something snide here, but Andy knows what Nigel's job is like. She isn't without empathy for what he's saying.

"Yeah, I get that," Andy says in a kind voice, because honestly she does. "I'm not asking you to be perfect at it."

"You're just asking me not to be an ass," Nigel supplies. Sounds genuinely apologetic.

"We can talk about it," Andy prompts. Knows that she'll have to be the one to bring it up now. "We can talk about Paris."

"You made things hard on us," Nigel admits, after a long pause. "Andy. . . You made things very hard when you left."

"I know," Andy says softly, but doesn't apologize. She's come too far to do that. "You have a right to be angry."

But as soon as Andy says that, Nigel realizes it was never Andy he was angry with.

 

9.

Miranda's anger with Andrea has run its course. Which is difficult for her, as always, because after anger comes sadness.

She hears Nigel confide to Emily that he and Andy have been going out to lunches, dinners. And Nigel would be terrified if he knew that Miranda is in the executive kitchen, listening to this, but she relishes in the opportunity to eavesdrop on this particular conversation.

"I'll give her your regards," Nigel says to Emily in a teasing voice, and Miranda feels irrationally envious of Emily. Emily, who Nigel confides this in, and who could so easily slide into friendship with Andrea.

"If you insist," Emily replies coolly. And it's the kind of thing Miranda would herself say, but it still makes her fume.

She comes out of the kitchen a few minutes later, now in a snit. Spends the rest of afternoon sending Emily on errands across the farthest reaches of the city.

 

10.

Andy gets in her first bar fight when a drunk, obnoxious guy in an expensive suit uses a word much worse than 'bitch' while speaking to her. But it's difficult to tell the story later, after Doug picks her up, because the guy didn't use the word to refer Andy herself, but rather in reference to Miranda Priestly.

"Well," Doug says much later that night, when Andy is good and sober, and now sitting on his couch looking horribly embarrassed. "You always were a scrappy one."

A week goes by before Andy walks into _The Mirror_ to find a carefully wrapped bottle of five-thousand-dollar cognac waiting on her desk, the accompanying note handwritten if unsigned (though Andy recognizes that elegant writing immediately). She goes about working on her laptop for an entire hour before she breaks, pulling the note back out again. Rereads, ' _please refrain from pouring this on anyone's_ _head'_  a few times over. Feels confused and happy in equal measure.

. . .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to haunt me at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlikeapapercut (dwp blog) and https://thiswillonlyhurtalittle.tumblr.com/ (main blog).


	2. Longing

* * *

 

 _"And the flowers in their bed,_  
_they're drooping and dying and fading away._  
_This weather's no good for growing things."_

\- Vance Joy, "Best That I Can"

* * *

 

 

1.

All Miranda's husband wants is an apology.

He isn't asking for the world, Miranda knows. He just wants some kind of acknowledgement that his feelings matter and her professional obligations aren't the only things that exist for her.

"This dinner has been on my calendar for weeks," Miranda says instead. "There's no way I can possibly cancel it."

Greg doesn't raise his voice because he was one of their one-year-old daughters slung over his shoulder, her little limbs slack with sleep. But his eyes flash in menacing way, his expression now cold and hard as he walks out of their bedroom and into the nursery.

Miranda puts in her pearl earrings, fumbling with the backing of the second because her fingers refuse to cooperate. She reaches for a long, delicate necklace and wishes she could be one of those people - one of those spineless women - who say they're sorry even when they know they're right.

 

2.

Andy doesn't really get on with her faculty adviser at Northwestern. Doesn't like that it took two courses and half a dozen conversations at honors student mixers before he could be bothered to learn her name. Feels skeeved out and pissed off that he shrugs off her ambitions, making soft, dismissive comments as he stares at her chest over his wire-rimmed glasses.

She leaves her advising appointment after only five minutes because this guy is useless to her and she already knows what she needs to do to graduate in the spring. Goes home to her empty on-campus apartment and consoles herself with reading a stack of old issues of _The Atlantic_. Rereads only the articles by female authors and scribbles notes on a yellow legal pad. Thinks about her plans, and all the strong, successful women in the world. Assures herself that one day she'll be one of them.

 

3.

Emily keeps one of her old size-six dresses in the back of her closet, a small reminder of what could happen if she isn't vigilant.  It's a simple wrap dress, black with no embellishment; uninspired, ubiquitous, though not completely hideous.

Sometimes when she's tidying up (organizing seasons, getting rid of things that are months behind the trends), she'll stop and run her fingers along the black jersey fabric - well worn though not threadbare, and still so surprisingly soft. Stands there and wonders what it would be like to not be so vigilant, to not worry about everything at every second and actually be able to sleep and perhaps not ache hollow when others are contented?

She wonders but never lingers. Goes right back to the project at hand.

 

4.

Andy Sach's self-righteousness doesn't bother Nigel the way it rightfully should. At least, certainly doesn't bother him to the _degree_ he thinks it ought to. Sure, Andy thinks she's better than _Runway_. Better than Nigel and even Miranda. But beyond this youthful arrogance, Andy is kind; tender and honest in ways that the world should have already stripped from her, no less so as she shows ambition.

"What?" Andy asks, one day in the elevator. But Nigel only blinks at her. Realizes that he's been staring. "You were thinking pretty hard over there, Nige," she says with a giggle. "Anything you'd like to share?"

"That MAC lipstick is wrong for you," he tells her. "Too much of a purple undertone. Makes you look a bit sallow."

Andy wilts and Nigel feels a bastard. Someone who envies Andy's youthful optimism and therefore tries to destroy it.

"Their Russian Red would be much better on you," he hastens to add with a wink.

Andy perks up, but Nigel still feels like a monster. An envious, deplorable person he barely recognizes and no longer wants to be.

 

5.

"I could make you some tea," Andy offers. Knows that she is probably inviting slow, painful death in even making this offer when Miranda's had a bad day.

 "Can you make decent tea?" Miranda asks her over glasses. And even sick and pale, her voice mostly gone, the entailed threat there is remarkably clear.

Andy doesn't answer. Knows the only proof of competence that Miranda will ever accept is an actual demonstration, so she goes into Miranda's kitchen with her purse over her shoulder. (She picked up two lovely loose leaf teas four days ago, when Miranda first starting hacking inside her office.) And of course she knows that Miranda normally takes her coffee without sweeter and her tea devoid of milk, but she also knows that Miranda feels like shit right now. Stirs in the cream and honey without the accompanying panic she should probably feel.

"Not awful," Miranda pronounces. Closes her eyes in what looks like contentment while Andy swallows down her own swell of victory.

Miranda doesn't say 'thank you' though her dismissal of Andy is kind, as far as Miranda dismissals go. And yet Andy doesn't exit immediately, still hovering in front of Miranda because she's  remembered that Stephen is out of town and the girls are gone for the weekend. Which means Miranda will now be all alone while she's sick.

"I hired you as an assistant, not a nurse," Miranda snarks, and Andy averts her eyes. Knows that it isn't personal, this lack of trust. Merely Miranda unwilling to show some weakness.

The week after that, Andy comes down with whatever Miranda had and she's the only one to get it. Emily is somehow perversely _envious_ of Andy's illness and Nigel privately cajoles her about too much time with the Dragon, all while Andy is achy and tired and miserable.

"You should drink some tea," Miranda says to her, when Andy's cough repeatedly disrupts a meeting. It's in front of a full room - a gaggle of gobsmacked employees all trying to hide their surprise at Miranda's lack of revulsion. And Andy nods, but never makes herself that tea because there are calls to make, miracles to organize, and seven Marchesa dresses presently delayed in transit.

"I see that you ignored my advice about tea," Miranda snipes that same day. When it's half past eight at night and Andy is coughing pathetically into her cup of cold coffee.

"Sorry," Andy mumbles. Closes her eyes for only a moment when she feels the touch of a cool hand to her forehead.

"You're burning up," Miranda frowns. "Go home. Do so this instant."

Andy does as she's told. Even pays for a cab so she can crawl into an empty bed that much faster, as is Nate still at the restaurant.

Except when she gets there she only lies awake, thinking about Miranda's voice. That soft skin touched tentatively to Andy's own face.

_You're burning up._

Andy is. Burning up now from the inside out.

 

6.

The silly girl offers to make her tea. Even ruins the perfectly wonderful non-caloric beverage with the addition of honey and milk. _Honey and milk_ , and in no small quantity either. 

The tea is still soothing and Andrea's concern so refreshingly sincere, Miranda can't help but feel a bit grateful. It won't do to reveal that to Andrea, of course, and she finds a reason to scold her for the same a few moments later. But Miranda still watches her go, affection rustling in her chest as she wonders what she ever did to earn such personal loyalty.

Regrets that she'll invariably do something to lose it, feeling prematurely bereaved. Coughs the whole way up the stairs.

 

7.

"I saw the way you looked at him," Miranda tells Andy in Paris, when Stephen faxes her the divorce papers. And Andy flies into a complete panic. "The revulsion," Miranda supplies, when Andy starts to stammer.

It's true. Stephen made Andy's skin crawl. Granted, it didn't help that he usually had a scotch in his hand by the time Andy spotted him. Never his first, either.

Andy shakes her head. She won't lie, but everything honest she can say will hurt Miranda and blow up in her own face.

"I wasn't always an old fool," Miranda sighs. "I used to mock other women for failing to notice what I did."

"You loved him," Andy says. Shrugs again, as if her continued flailing is helping.

"And you think that absolves me of my idiocy?" Miranda asks pointedly.

"I think it explains you not focusing on his faults," Andy modifies.

"Is that what you do in your own relationship?" Miranda demands acidly. "Refuse to acknowledge that your boyfriend has undesirable traits?"

Andy grimaces. Rolls her eyes openly, not caring if this ticks off her boss.  Admits, "he left me, actually."

Miranda makes a small 'o' with her mouth, though no sound actually comes out of it. It's the most uncharacteristic thing Miranda has done tonight. Feels far stranger than her lack of makeup or even her sitting here in her robe.

"Cancel my evening," Miranda suddenly says, and Andy's relieved she came to this conclusion without any prodding.

"I'll handle everything," Andy nods. "You just get some sleep."

"Sleep?" Miranda snorts. "Andrea. Tonight _we_ _drink_."

It's not like Andy can say no, can she?  She cancels her dinner with Christian with remarkably little regret.

Andy wakes up wanting coffee, a shower, some bacon, and maybe death, but two out of four ain't bad. And Miranda is herself today. So thoroughly herself that Andy can't stand it. Maybe Miranda has blocked out laughing with Andy over twenty-year-old bourbon? Andy doing an uncanny impression of Emily, and then Nigel, all while Miranda cackled her head off.

Just as well, Andy tells herself. Puts the pain behind her eyes down to the bourbon, the burn in her chest to the coffee.

 

8.

Andy remembers coming home to Nate. She remembers what it used to be like to walk into this same apartment, all the lights but one already off, just like this.

She doesn't miss his dirty clothes piled on the couch. Feels relieved that she can throw her bag down and toe her boots off without worrying about the accompanied thuds. Goes into a bathroom that's just as spotless and white as she left it this morning so she can scrape her makeup off. Empty her bladder of all those coffees she drank out of desperation.

She's relieved that her bed smells like lavender when she crawls into it. _Lavender_ , not some ever-changing mix of sweat, cooking oil, and aftershave. She can even sleep in the middle of the bed now. She can sleep in the middle of her soft, sweet-smelling bed and know that no one will snore her awake tonight.

Andy closes her eyes, thinking about how entirely fucked up it is that she can sleep in the middle of the bed. Entirely fucked up and _wrong_.

 

9.

The girls don't tell Miranda things anymore, and Miranda can no longer put it down to them being teens. Caroline morphs into a creature who's guarded and prickly, and Cassidy begins to tell lies. Lies that are small and then lies that are big, and then lies that land her in serious trouble.

Miranda does everything she can keep it out of the press, but early one Sunday morning she gets a call from Andrea Sachs. A polite request for them to have coffee. It's been six years since Miranda's spoken to the woman, neither of them having acknowledged the other on the only occasion they happened to cross paths in public, at an awards banquet two years earlier. But turn up at Miranda's doorstep Andrea Sachs does, and at the exact minute Miranda decreed.

Andrea doesn't squander Miranda's time with preface or small talk. Just hands Miranda the memory stick and explains that these are the only copies of the photos and no, no this isn't blackmail.

"Surely you must want _something._ " Miranda hisses, and Andrea just stares at her, unblinking.

"Well," Andrea says calmly, "I'm about to need a new job, and it would nice if you gave me the same reference as last time."

"You're asking me not to blackball you?" Miranda summarizes. Furrows her brow for punctuation.

"That about covers it, yes," Andrea replies. Gives a tentative smile and cites another engagement.

Miranda doesn't stop her from leaving. Let's her go without even thanking her before going upstairs to Cassidy's bedroom, the girl still sound asleep in bed and one pale foot poking out from beneath her purple comforter.

She'll find Andrea a job within Elias-Clarke, Miranda decides, still watching her daughter sleep. Not at _Runway -_ never again at _Runway_. But something somewhere else. Something appropriately challenging.

Andrea may turn it down. She will probably turn it down. But Miranda certainly hopes she won't.

 _Hope_.

God, how she still lives on it.

 

10.

They run into each again at an event, when Andy is thirty-five and Miranda is, _well_ , a far sight past thirty-five.  And Andy is more guarded now (still kind, still honest, but world weary) while Miranda is strangely softer. Perhaps a bit nostalgic for that particular period of _Runway._

 "Will I always be this tired?" Andy asks Miranda, after they've left, gone in search of a comfortable bar.  Andy laughs when she asks it, a kind of bubbling giggle, but even that sounds exhausted.

"Yes," Miranda answers her simply. "But you're strong and you'll get stronger. You won't always feel like this."  And Andy throws her head back, relieved. Takes Miranda's word as gospel.

Miranda gives her a rare smile. Fluffs Andy's bangs with the tip of an index finger, Andy catching her outstretched hand. Andy means it as a playful gesture but Miranda freezes, her face now remarkably open. Open and clearly afraid.

"I want to be your friend," Andy tells her.

This is the truth.

It's true that even though Andy wants so much more than this, friendship alone would content her.

"Do you want that too?" Andy asks, full of hope.

Miranda nods, a stilted motion that captures none of her elegance or usual certainty, and Andy smiles all the same. Squeezes Miranda's hand as she motions  for another round for both of them.

 . . .

 


	3. Alternate Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changed up the format on this one. Hope it floats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to haunt me at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlikeapapercut (dwp blog) and https://thiswillonlyhurtalittle.tumblr.com/ (main blog).

* * *

_We wrote the story._  
_We turned the pages._  
_You changed the end,_  
_like everybody said you would._

-Ingrid Michaelson, "Time Machine"

* * *

 

1. 

Andy hates her mother-in-law. Hates her in a manner that's far greater than the tired, sitcom cliche; downright visceral in a way that she's never loathed anyone before.

She gets dressed for dinner, thinking that she'd be perfectly happy to light the woman on fire and stand by, contentedly sipping a martini, as the flames burned and burned and burned.

"She's taxing," Andy's husband allows. "But please, let's just make an effort tonight, okay?"

Andy agrees. Because it's who she is. And she loves her husband. Loves the rest of her in-laws, too.

"Andy," her father-in-law greets with a smile. Kisses her cheek and hugs her like he means it. Is forever charming, though not insincerely so.

"Nigel," Andy says, hugging him back. "Thank you for having us."

"Of course," her father-in-law laughs. "You know how Miranda loves to cook."

It's a joke, of course, as the closest Miranda comes to domesticity is dispatching one of her harried assistants to pick up food from Per Se or Masa. But Andy swallows the acid remarks that forms on her tongue, affecting a lighthearted giggle instead.

"Miranda's still working, of course," Nigel says, and Andy feels relieved. Hopes maybe her mother-in-law will end up working right through the whole evening.

"A shame," Andy feigns and Nigel smirks at her. Seems approving of the blatant lie.

But Andy's luck runs out, predictably, and Miranda makes it home just after they've sat down to dinner. Ignores her son, ignores her husband, peppers Andy with cold, disinterested remarks about Andy's difficulty in getting her newest novel ready for publication.

"Ya know," Andy smiles disarmingly, "I was in my doctor's office the other day and ended up thumbing through several issues of French _Runway_."

Andy's husband looks at her pleadingly, her father-in-law stares deeply into his lobster bisque, and Miranda regards her in that disinterested way that Andy just doesn't buy anymore.

"It seemed, oh - I don't know," Andy draws out deliberately. "A bit younger than your own magazine? More appealing to an audience not yet old enough to be members of AARP?"

"I think you're confusing youth with taste," Miranda murmurs. "Unfortunate given that former is now fading from you rapidly, while you've yet to cultivate the latter."

Andy doesn't take the bait. Knows from all the rumors in her own circle that Miranda's days are numbered, the Board of Elias-Clarke on the hunt for someone younger. Younger and cheaper.

"Maybe so," Andy pretends to demur. "Although I wonder if the same error could also be committed by someone like Irv Ravitz?"

With that, she and Miranda are alone at the dinner table, the men having excused themselves on account of cowardice. Nominally smoking cigars.

Andy takes pleasure in Miranda giving her an openly menacing smile, the air of politeness now gone.

"I will make your life in this family miserable," Miranda pronounces. "Please understand this, Andrea."

"So long as you understand that I will dance on your professional grave the day that _Runway_ sacks you," Andy sits back in her chair. Pictures people sewing the grounds of Elias-Clarke with salt, once they've vanquished the bitch across from her.

"You'll be waiting a long time, I'm afraid," Miranda says. "Longer than the veritable _eternity_ it's going to take you to publish that boring little novel of yours."

"We'll see," Andy smiles, and begins eating her soup again.

"We'll see," Miranda echoes. Stares at Andy with open hatred now.

Strange that hatred from anyone could feel like an award to Andy; a Nobel and a Pulitzer bestowed to her on a single, gleaming platter.

 

2.

"Andy," Mr. Kipling calls from his office, and Andy hops out of her chair.

"Coffee?" she offers before he can ask.

" _Please_ ," he says and rubs his face. A sign that the numbers he's going over are indeed dire.

"Back in ten," she promises.

"I know it's raining," the editor offers with a tired smile. "I'll make it up to you."

Andy smiles back, not minding at all. _Runway_ might not be the job she hoped to land when she first came to New York, but she's learned a ton in her five months here. Picked up stuff about publishing and business and, yes, fashion. All because she's been lucky enough to work for someone who's taken the time to mentor her.

Andy gets to the elevator at the same time as the head of the magazine's art department, which means that Andy resigns herself to taking the stairs. One of the many things Miranda Priestly doesn't do, apparently, is share small spaces with lowly assistants. Andy's just lucky she never had to learn that the hard way, the way most people do.

"Are you getting in this century?" Miranda demands in that disinterested way everyone finds terrifying, and Andy scurries in.

"Starbucks run," Andy says. Cringes at how chirpy she gets when she's nervous, the way the small space just amplifies it. Hates that she feels so thickheaded and self-conscious whenever this woman looks at her.

"I'm sure he needs it," Miranda replies quietly. "I've seen the numbers."

Andy doesn't know how Miranda could possibly have seen the revenue numbers before Mr. Kipling. But she's a great deal she's yet to understand about this place, like why everyone defers to Miranda so much or why Mr. Kipling takes her word as gospel; trusts her professional opinion no matter what, even though there's this thin film of tension that hangs between them despite allegedly being _friends_. It's complicated and confusing. Makes Andy's head hurt to puzzle through whenever she tries.

Andy's so distracted that she doesn't doesn't notice Miranda beside her in the lobby and then Miranda's umbrella beside hers in the crosswalk. Looks up with a start when the door to Starbucks is opened for her, Miranda's hand braced against the metal crossbar and her blue eyes boring holes into Andy's skull.

"By all means, move at a glacial pace," Miranda waves her free hand in annoyance. "You know how that thrills me."

"Sorry," Andy gulps.

They get in line and Andy starts to officially panic. Miranda never makes this walk if an assistant is already going, and Andy memorized Miranda's coffee order long before she knew Mr. Kipling's. Why in the hell did Miranda come with her, rather than demanding that Andy simply fetch?

She sends a frantic text message to the manager behind the counter, begging her to tack on Miranda's order to the one she already texted in. Feels relieved when she sees the woman fish her flip phone out of her pocket, then roll her eyes.

"I'd wondered how you managed to conduct coffee runs so efficiently," Miranda murmurs, after they've reached the head of the line and Andy's swiped her company card, the entirety of their order already waiting in a tan carrier.

"I've found shortcuts," Andy acknowledges, not sure where this is going. "Made friends with other assistants. Gotten cell numbers when only office numbers were listed. That kind of thing."

"I underestimated you," Miranda says, and Andy chokes on her whole milk, caramel drizzled latte.

"Apology accepted," Andy forces a smile. Hopes it looks more convincing than it feels.

"That wasn't an apology," Miranda smirks. "The way you presented yourself demanded that I - and everyone who encountered you - take one look at your sloppy appearance and make the understandable assumptions." Andy gapes and Miranda sniffs, "the fault was your own."

"Look," Andy shakes her head. Puts one hand on her hip. "I... I don't know what-"

"You don't know a great _many_ things," Miranda cuts her off. Saves her from flailing really, because Andy had no idea how to finish that sentence. "But I believe you capable of learning. Assuming you are willing to continue in your present position when certain changes are made at _Runway_."

"Changes," Andy repeats. Feels more lost than usual, Miranda giving her  the please-don't-be-such-an-idiot look that she must go home and practice at night.

"Andrea," she says. Says Andy's name in that way that no one says her name, _that really isn't even her name_. And yet Andy finds somehow enthralling? "Think," Miranda instructs.

"The numbers," Andy guesses. "They're bad."

"Yes."

"They've been bad for months."

"And they're only getting worse," Miranda informs her. "A hemorrhage of revenue that the present editor hasn't stopped and the Board will no longer tolerate."

"Mr. Kipling," Andy gasps. Feels something fragile shatter inside of her. Her chest fills with sharp edges, jangling pieces that tumble loose.

"There will be a place for you," Miranda repeats, alarmingly coolly. And that's when that last, hanging piece drops. Crashes down straight into Andy's stomach.

"You," Andy says. " _You_ ," she repeats, this time an accusation.

"I admire loyalty," Miranda breezes. "But take care, Andrea. It's so rarely warranted, its cost remarkably high."

Miranda walks back with Andy. Even stands next to her while they wait for the signal to turn, Andy so visibly brokenhearted and angry.

Angry at the Miranda. Angry at the world. Angry at herself, for still liking the way Miranda says her name. Wondering just a little what it would be like to hear it floating out from Mr. Kipling's office.

 

3. 

Andy pees on a stick at six am on a Monday morning.

It's a bad decision, doing it then. Because if ever this is good time to have your whole life fall apart in front of your eyes, it isn't at 6am on a Monday morning when you're Miranda Priestly's first assistant and Paris Fashion Week is a week away.

The silver lining is that Andy doesn't have much time to panic. Oh, she makes time, of course. In elevators. The subway. The ten seconds of holy silence that Miranda affords in the car, pausing in her endless list of instructions.

"Are you unwell?" Miranda asks her on Thursday. They're in Miranda's car, coming back from an event, and Andy's been playing the scribe for the last twenty-five minutes of traffic.

"Unwell?" Andy repeats. Knows this is a mistake even as she does it because Miranda so loathes repeating herself.

But Miranda only slips her reading glasses off, giving Andy a thoughtful look that seems remarkably close to. . . _concern_?

The car stops in front of the townhouse and Miranda motions for Andy to follow her. Andy trudges up the townhouse steps, exhausted down to the bone and hoping against hope Miranda will not need her for much longer tonight.

"Tea?" Miranda offers. Not out of the ordinary these days, as after a year and half by Miranda's side the woman sometimes actually treats Andy like a person. _Sometimes._

"Yes, please," Andy agrees. Feels curious when Miranda pulls out a peppermint tea instead of her usual blend. Doesn't mind either, as she's been nauseous most of the day.

"I found food unpalatable the first three months of pregnancy," Miranda murmurs, when they've settled in the breakfast nook.

In true Miranda fashion, she waits until Andy is relaxed, her guard now down. A warm cup cradled in her hands and a comfortable chair beneath her.

"Ah," Andy says. Doesn't bluff through a denial. Doesn't see any point.

"Is this what you want?" Miranda asks her. Not at all pointed. Almost - almost kind.

"No," Andy says immediately. Spares Miranda the details of her off again, on again long-distance relationship with Nate and how neither of them are ready for this. The fact that Nate wouldn't have chosen this either but will use her decision against her. Guilt her when it suits him.

"Have you set up an appointment?" Miranda asks, sounding firmer now.

"Not yet," Andy says, realizing how that sounds. "I haven't had a moment to make the calls."

"Paris," Miranda tells her. "Paris would be the ideal time."

"It's our busiest week of the year," Andy puzzles. "How-"

"I had Caroline and Cassidy when I was 39," Miranda cuts her off. "But they were not my first pregnancy."

Andy closes her mouth, not letting a single syllable escape. Miranda rarely shares private information and when she does, she sure as hell doesn't want commentary.

"You have the right to choose your own future," Miranda says with conviction. "You should feel not one iota of guilt for exercising judgment to determine that future." 

"I don't," Andy says. Because she doesn't. Mostly. Mostly, she doesn't.

"That being said," Miranda hesitates, "such matters are often used against women who amass power. As you've seen for yourself, my right to privacy goes out the window the second my name can be used to sell papers."

"Yeah," Andy manages, though she's getting a little confused now.

"I had my abortion in Paris," Miranda says, "because that's where I was living at the time. But I am, in fact, quite lucky that was the case. Had I gone for the procedure in this country, my private health information would have eventually been leaked to the press. Some hospital worker looking to buy a new _pickup truck_ or something."

Miranda's right, unfortunately. But Andy still doesn't know what this has to do with her or where she gets her own abortion.

"You have great potential," Miranda tells her. And it's not the first time Miranda's said this, but it still feels like perfection to Andy. Like climbing to the top of an impossibly high mountain and looking at everything laid out below. "But that means you must look to limit your liabilities, Andrea." Sounds almost imploring when she finishes, "you must look to guard against those things that will be used as weapons against you in the future."

_Oh._

Miranda thinks that Andy could one day be powerful enough or famous enough for the press to slander.

It's the darkest, scariest, saddest compliment Andy has ever received, but a genuine compliment it is. A profound one, actually, now that Andy thinks about it. 

It turns out that Andy doesn't even take a whole day off in Paris to have the procedure. Simply skips out on a dinner and goes in a cab to small, quiet doctor's office. Is amazed how quick it is and how needlessly horrible she'd made it in her head.

She comes out of the office to find Miranda's car waiting, which Andy rather expected. She's surprised, however, to find Miranda seated inside.

"Groggy?" Miranda eyes her, offering a bottle of water.

"Pain meds," Andy confirms. "I'll be fine in time for the Marchesa show tomorrow morning."

"You will," Miranda says sternly. And Andy likes that Miranda's still herself right now. Still normal.

Only somewhat normal though, because Miranda follows her to her room, taking the room key from Andy's hands when she fumbles with it twice. Slides it in with one efficient motion and then clicks open the door, leading Andy with a hand pressed lightly atop her shoulder.

Andy still isn't in pain, just tanked by the meds they gave her before and after. Like going to the dentist, but without the added joy of her face feeling like it's sliding off her head.

"Clothes," Miranda tugs at her dress. Helps Andy step out of the black, loose fitting linen and even unhooks her bra for her.

Somehow, in Andy's foggy state, none of this seems particularly weird.

"Water is right here," Miranda says, once Andy's in a t-shirt, sliding with very little grace into some exorbitantly expensive sheets.

"Thanks," Andy smiles. Blinks under the bright, white light of the bedside lamp.

"Yes, well," Miranda says. Flicks off the light.

"Miranda," Andy says. Sounds a little too demanding but doesn't know how to modulate her tone.

" _Yes_?" Miranda glowers.

"Thank you," Andy repeats and stares at her hard. Hopes that Miranda sees the truth and doesn't just blame it on the drugs.

"Silly girl," Miranda shakes her head, but ruffles her bangs. Smiles down at her, briefly, before she pulls her hand away.

Andy wakes up ten minutes before her alarm goes off. Feels a little tired, but no worse than usual. Gets up and starts about putting Miranda's day in order; sending emails to twenty people, returning a call to Donatella's people to say that no, _no_ they cannot change the seating arrangement for their luncheon anymore.

Andy's door opens at ten 'til seven, no knock to alert her before Miranda waltzes in. Begins rattling off orders that Andy carries out right after she hands Miranda the scalding latte that room service just delivered.

"Did Donatella call you again?" Miranda demands, one hand on her hip.

"I handled it," Andy replies. No need to fan the flames.

"She's getting more unhinged every year," Miranda purses her lips. "She's squandering our time."

"It could be worse," Andy shrugs.

"Oh?' Miranda demands acidly.

"I had a nightmare last night," Andy tells her. "Dreamed that I worked for Jaqueline Follet. None of the designers would talk me and when I ran into Nigel and James Holt they pretended not to know me."

"That isn't a nightmare," Miranda retorts. "That is, no doubt, the actual reality of working for French _Runway_."

"Lucky me," Andy smiles, feeling particularly fearless today. "Getting to work for you."

Miranda narrows her eyes. Gives Andy a cold look that her tone doesn't at all match when she tuts, "silly girl."

 

4.

"You should take the job that Nigel's offered you," Miranda tells Andy, when they're alone together in the hotel elevator.

Andy has even thought about the offer. Hasn't thought about her own future because she's been too busy feeling bereft over what's happened to Miranda.

"Are you - will you not stay in publishing?" Andy asks her. Whatever Miranda does next seems to have some kind of shining, intrinsic import regarding where Andy herself should go.

"Of course I will," Miranda says, and Andy lets out a breath. Knows that Miranda will probably be at the helm of some new empire within a few weeks. "But I am not bringing you with me, Andrea."

"I-" Andy stops short. "You. . . You don't want me to -but-"

"Following me will be not bode well for you career," Miranda informs her, the elevator doors swishing open to their mercifully empty floor.

And Miranda obviously means for the conversation to be over with this, probably wants to slip into her private suite and lick her wounds. Her many, many wounds. But Andy is stubborn and driven and often possesses a kind of single-mindedness that maybe, _maybe_ she should see a therapist about one of these days. She doggedly follows Miranda without even thinking twice about it.

"Miranda," Andy huffs. Stays on the woman's heels, right into her suite, the dethroned editor looking put upon but not her usual, lethal self at such an intrusion. "Miranda, you said yourself that I'm smart. Capable. You'll need someone like me, wherever you go."

"Someone _like you_ ," Miranda repeats. Takes off her ridiculously large Dior sunglasses. Let's see Andy see that her eyes are red and puffy from tears. "But not _you_."

Andy deflates. Feels rejected and worthless in a way that not even Nate dumping her had managed to make her feel.

"Andrea," Miranda thunders. Actually _raises her voice_ , when Andy's already having trouble holding back tears. "Don't you see, you foolish, shortsighted girl? I'm poison to you!" She gestures into space; an inelegant, frantic motion that's at odds with everything Andy knows this woman to be. "Poison to anyone, probably, but so very lethal to someone like you."

"Someone like me?" Andy manages, still trying not to cry. So sad and angry and now hopelessly confused.

"Someone's who's _loyal,_ " Miranda supplies. Jabs a finger into the air as if to underscore her point. "I will drain you dry, Andrea. I will abuse your loyalty and play on your respect, and then one day I'll throw you away. Just as I would have done to Nigel."

"It's because of you that Nigel's been offered the job with Holt," Andy shakes her head.

"And I would have taken it away from him!" Miranda screams. _Screams_. _Miranda_. "If I hadn't been so blindsided by Stephen and the divorce - seen Irv's little plot sooner, I would have maneuvered Follet out of the way. Foisted her onto James Holt and bumped Nigel from a job he's rightfully earned, even though he has more talent in his ring finger than that woman will ever possess."

"You wouldn't have," Andy argues, crying now. Eyes stinging with running eyeliner, cheeks flushed with desperation. "You would _never_ have done that to Nigel, Miranda. I don't believe it for a second."

Miranda gives a hollow laugh. Shakes her head at Andy like she's the biggest idiot on the planet. Her biggest disappointment.

But Andy still handles Miranda's schedule for her. Cancels the appropriate things, changes the flight home. Makes all the calls to lawyers and publicists that Miranda should make but obviously can't be bothered with, having resigned herself to a midday sleep. They fly home from Paris, and Andy turns down to job that Nigel's offered her. Because she wants to stay in publishing, not fashion. Because she's thinking about Miranda.

Because maybe she's an idiot, Andy decides after a month of looking for work to no avail and her savings now depleted. But then (at eleven am on a Tuesday morning) an email turns up in Andy's inbox from something called _Sartorial Magazine_. And attached is a job offer as the executive assistant to the online magazine's editor-in-chief, who just happens to be listed as Miranda Priestly.

The job starts at seven in the morning the next day, which surprises Andy not at all. She marches right into the open, airy building in the old meatpacking district, armed with a burning hot Starbucks latte in one hand.

"Finally, " Miranda hisses, but Andy only smiles at her. Meets Miranda's stare until the woman relents, casting her eyes heavenward in apparent vexation.

It's a small staff and a different pace of things; this is not a kingdom built within the existing wealth of an empire like Elias-Clarke. But Miranda is Miranda and the work in many ways is still the same. So Andy dives in. Tries not to think about Paris. Wills herself to forget the Miranda who was at loose ends and screaming just so she wouldn't cry.

"I wasn't wrong," Miranda says to her one night, three months in. The online magazine is doing well, ad revenue through the roof, and Miranda's talking about making Andy a content editor.

"Hm?" Andy says over her laptop. Doesn't look up at Miranda because she's still typing a terse email to Rachel Zoe's assistant.

"This will be bad for you," Miranda says casually, and slips off her glasses. "Not right now. But later. . . I wasn't wrong in Paris, Andrea."

Andy blinks and blinks. Doesn't understand how Miranda can even say that. Because everyone wants to do what they're doing. Create something influential and profitable and _good,_ all from the ground up. 

"Don't be silly, Miranda," Andy absently murmurs. Spellchecks the word 'plebeian' because the correct spelling of it always looks wrong to her. "Everyone wants this. Everyone wants to be us." 

 

 5.

Andy doesn't know who Miranda Priestly is, but she does know that her husband is an ass. Apology flowers several times a month- always huge, always expensive, always some unimaginative arrangement of roses or freesias- _every month_ , for the whole six months that Andy's been working part-time in this flower shop to make ends meet.

And it shouldn't make Andy so mad. Shouldn't make her want to snap her pen in half, every time this Stephen Tomlinson guy has his snooty assistant send some thoughtless apology to the wife he's apparently pissed off. But it does. _Makes her so angry_. Angrier still on the days she's just left her apartment in a huff, fresh from fighting with Nate.

It takes another month before Andy starts to crack. Dutifully sends along Stephen Tomlinson's hollow apologies, but with flowers Andy herself picked out. Riots of color and texture. Rare flowers mixing with cheap ones.

Another month, another set of apology flowers to Miranda Priestly, another fight with Nate that ends with Andy moving out. And Andy shouldn't do it. _She knows she shouldn't do it._ But the next time Tomlinson's assistant calls about flowers, Andy is polite and professional but writes down not one fucking word of his message. Picks out a single, exceptionally beautiful blue orchid for Miranda Priestly and charges it to Miranda's husband. Pulls out a plain white card and writes in her neatest, clearest print, " _Your husband is a jackass who has the worst possible taste in flowers. Best of luck, Andrea Sachs, Florist"_

It really isn't surprising when she gets the irate phone call from the shop's owner, informing her that she's fired. But then Andy tells Doug and Doug informs her who Miranda Priestly is, and yeah. _Yeah_ , there goes all of Andy's professional dreams, right out the window, just because she was having a momentary meltdown.

She gives herself a whole week to sulk and eat takeout on Doug's couch before she goes to apply for the writing jobs that she will now never, ever get.

"We get got a call about you," the the guy at _The Mirror_ says to Andy. "From Miranda Priestly herself."

Andy avoided applying for anything within Elias-Clarke for this very reason. But Doug was right. Miranda's influence is all-reaching and of course she searched Andy's name online. Found out in five seconds that Andy's an aspiring journalist.

"About that..." Andy sighs. Wishes she could turn back time.

"She said that you showed a 'remarkable grasp of the obvious and an ability to be concise when concision is most desirable'."

"I... what?" Andy manages.

"She hung up on me before I could ask her anything," he finishes. "But coming from her, that's high praise."

"What?" Andy repeats, and the man interviewing her just smiles.

"You're hired," he nods at her. "But I'm going to warn you right off, you're starting from square one. Basically a glorified gopher."

"I'll take it," Andy says immediately. "I want to learn."

The work isn't what she hoped, what she maybe romanticized in her head. But she does learn, does push herself even when she's tired or crestfallen or feels like she'll never get anywhere. And six months into her time at _The Mirror_ , Miranda Priestly's divorce makes the papers.

Maybe Andy's an optimist. Maybe she never learns her lessons the first time. Maybe she just can't leave well enough alone, she thinks to herself angrily, even as she marches to the nearest florist.

"That one," she says to woman behind the counter. Points to a white flower she's never seen before (probably some kind of hybrid?) but that boasts a single, imposing bloom.

"Wanna include a message?" the clerk asks her, and Andy thinks. Shakes her head. "Two hundred, twenty-four," the woman pronounces, ignoring Andy's wince.

Andy walks to her apartment instead of taking the subway. Thinks up a stream of questions to which she'll never know the answers. Keeps on smiling, even when it starts to sprinkle on her as she walks the long way home.

 . . .

 

 

 

 


	4. Revenge

 

 

* * *

 _I am a master hunter._  
_I cured my skin, now nothing gets in._  
_Nothing, not as hard as it tries._

-Laura Marling, "Master Hunter"

* * *

 

1. 

Stephen's doctor counsels him about 'male menopause', but Stephen just smirks it off.

He goes to work. Makes millions of dollars for himself and others. Appears at all the right restaurants with all the right friends. Drinks thirty-year-old scotch. Lives the life he's been carefully cultivating for himself since he was a young, ambitious man.

He isn't sure when everything shifts out from under him, but one night he goes to have sex with his wife and his erection refuses to cooperate. Miranda cites an early morning, kisses him on the cheek, then goes right to sleep.

The next month, he hears the young attractive associate at a boutique describing him as 'that well-dressed, older gentleman standing over there.'

He finds himself standing naked in front of the mirror most mornings now. Scrutinizing his thickening body. Feeling betrayed. Wanting to strangle something into submission.

He keeps the scotch, but cuts back on the steaks. Goes to the gym at lunchtime and lifts weights until it hurts. And his wife ignores him for work more and more, so he tells himself he's earned a reprieve. Begins to have affairs. Young, beautiful women and all of them employees at his firm, just like most of the previous women who didn't go on to be his wives.

Except, it's different now.

He never coerces, never threatens in any form, but he can tell these women are just sleeping with him to make their professional lives easier. They go through all the right motions, make the right sounds, but they don't _want_ him. He's just the old guy they're screwing because, on some level, they've deemed it the prudential course.

It enrages him. This new life enrages him and he wants to set the whole world on fire.

But nothing galls him more than his wife. Miranda Priestly, past her physical prime and yet an icon to young, stunning women everywhere. Supple women with perky tits, all waiting with baited breath for Miranda to appear within the halls of that damned magazine. Fighting and clawing and jealously competing for whatever fucking ridiculous thing Miranda will tell them to do next.

He has no doubt that straight or not, most of those women would happily fuck his wife, given half the chance. 

He decides to cut out carbs entirely and starts running eight miles a day instead of six. Buys a rare Lamborghini. Begins using his bank cards instead of cash whenever he buys gifts, lingerie for the women he sleeping with on the side. Shouts and snarls at Miranda, who inhabits only various shades of indifference during the rare times they're home together.

He gets drunk and hits on her assistants at events now. Takes the women he's dating to the same restaurants he and Miranda go to - deliberately takes them to the restaurants that everyone in their social circle frequent. Does everything he can to publicly humiliate his wife, punish her. Feels powerless and weak when she simply withstands his behavior in silence, behaves as if his insults don't even register as she goes about running her empire.

He sends her the divorce papers during fashion week. Miranda is off, being worshiped in Paris, and he is home alone, drunk, and resigned.

He doubts it will even hurt her. Sure as hell hopes it will break her.

 

2.

Emily’s at her desk when the request for reference comes in from the _Mirror_. Miranda has standing orders about references in general, but Miranda is also a lunch right now, having spent the prior hours enumerating Emily’s failings with her new level of zeal for that particularly topic.

How can it be that Andrea is still better? Better, despite that she left when Emily stayed?

Emily dashes off a short replyto the _Mirror_ composed of vague, underwhelming phrases. She smiles into her tea at Andrea being judged forgettable. Thinks it bloody fitting, as Miranda’s heels click back down the hall.

 

3.

Andy won't fool herself into thinking that the women at _Runway_ actually take care of each other in any robust sense. She harbors zero illusions regarding their open encouragement of eating disorders. The cruel, unrelenting objectification of the female form endemic to the magazine's culture.

Still, when it comes to sexual harassment, there's a bit of an informal system. A list of designers, handlers, photographers, and reps prone to _problematic_  behavior, most of whom Andy's given notice of in hushed voices while the speaker methodically reapplies lipstick beside a gleaming marble sink.

And it's Emily of all people ( _Emily -_ fresh from the hospital and still in her cast, and so chalked full of rage and jealously) who emphatically warns Andy about Damien, the new photographer Miranda's been so taken with of late. And though Andy doesn't mistake Emily's hissed warning for anything like feminist regard  - not when she's seen Emily and other clackers knowingly throw other girls to the groping wolves as they sneered into their martinis - she takes the warning with tempered gratitude. Slips the knowledge into her pocket, giving Damien sparing charm and a good bit of space at events. Takes special care to never be alone with him in elevators or dimly lit lobbies. Steers younger, prettier interns far out of his path. 

Damien takes a shine to Andy anyway, growing more problematic and gross at each event. Eventually Andy gets freaked out enough that she has to enlist Nigel to run interference for her. Knows better than to cause a scene.

Another month goes by and Damien drops of the radar entirely. No mention of him in run-throughs, no sign of him in the constantly chugging PR machine that Miranda unerringly steers. If Andy finds it odd, she doesn't question her luck. Just feels relieved in the few seconds she has to between slamming down coffees and getting up at 4am.

"Contact Claudia," Miranda hisses to Andy in the car one frantic morning, several months later, when Patrick's been taken ill with some Indian stomach bug and an especially expensive shoot has been thrown entirely off kilter. "See if she's available at the end of next week."

"Should I call Damien?" Andy offers, notebook at the ready. And it's a stupid thing, asking a question on a bad day, but this particular inquiry earns a look of contempt that likes of which Andy hasn't been subjected to since back, before Paris. 

"You of all people should know why that question is repugnant," Miranda tosses off casually. 

It's only then that Andy gets it. Realizes that Damien didn't fall out of favor because Miranda got bored with his vision. He hadn't merely made the mistake of waxing poetic about some odd shade of orange, or expressed an abiding affection for tuxedo inspired dresses.

"I - Miranda, I never thought... I didn't-" 

"Know your own worth, Andrea," Miranda cuts her off, still looking especially cross. "And do not confuse me for weak-minded women, like Emily." 

She doesn't say, y _ou could have come to me_ , but the accusation hangs thick in the car. When Andy watches Miranda back in the office, she realizes this particular kind of snit is the result of Miranda's feelings being hurt.

A few Sunday's later, Andy reads through all of the city's newspapers, even the rags, per her usual weekend ritual.  She smiles into her coffee when she happens to spot Damien's photo credit spelled out under a cliche engagement photo, and in a newspaper that is certainly not the _Times_.

She saves the paper. Cuts the photo out that night with a brand new pair razor-sharp craft scissors that produce crisp, perfect edges. Tucks the little square it into her purse and brings it to work the next day. Places it on very edge of her own desk, then logs into her computer to tackle the mountain of work awaiting her. 

"Have we heard from Patrick?" Miranda asks immediately and torpedoes her tote at Emily.

"Clean bill of health," Andy nods. Begins to rattle off the endless updates about time and people, while Miranda now stares down at the clipping on Andy's desk. 

"Acceptable," Miranda says in her usual neutral tone. Then she picks up Andy's little peace offering and slides it carefully into the folder she's carrying. Sashays into office without further comment. 

 

4.

Nigel comes out of the closet because of a man named Marcus. They've been quietly dating for several months when Marcus declares, over a cozy dinner,  that he could never love someone who lies about who they are.

So Nigel comes out. Endures his mother’s tears and his father silence because such pain is acceptable price for a life with the person he loves. Begins idly looking at bigger apartments. Asks Marcus what parts of the city he’d consider living in.

Five months later, Marcus dumps him for someone thinner and richer. So Nigel works even harder until he gets picked up by _Runway_. Loses another twenty pounds. Positions himself as someone important people seek out at parties. Daydreams about how lovely it would be to run into Marcus now.

Splendid to act as if he can't even recall the man's name.

 

5.

Jacqueline Follet privately delights in Miranda Priestly’s new choice of paramour, as Mark Fuller’s roving eye is as famous as his books. Given that he fits the bill with regard to other social expectation of Miranda's status,  she can see why an aging woman would choose to look overlook one or two unappealing habits. The world is a cruel, cruel place for an aging woman. Were that woman not Miranda Priestly, she might even feel some empathy.

But Jacqueline patiently bides her time. Watches closely.

Opportunity presents itself at a small holiday charity event, Jacqueline spotting an attractive brunette with ample cleavage and a face she vaguely recalls as one of Miranda’s former employees. She doesn't make the introductions herself - that might raise the girl’s suspicions. Instead she finds out from someone else the girl’s name and from there that she’s a journalist. Asks another acquaintance to be a dear and introduce the Sachs girl to Fuller, 'a professional kindness from one woman to another'.

The young woman is obviously starstruck upon meeting Fuller; peppers him with questions about Sudan and the political climate in Turkey while the letch smiles, standing closer and glancing down the woman's dress. Jacqueline smirks, rejoicing that this Sachs woman is too naive to even realize that her hero's interest isn't about her work.

When Miranda finally appears, clearly searching with some vexation for her date, she finds him with his hand on her ex-employee’s shoulder, his smile decidedly predatory.

“Miranda,” the idiot girl smiles, and Fuller jumps a mile. Confirms whatever it is Miranda must already be thinking.

But Miranda doesn't say a word to him. Merely hisses something at the girl that Jacqueline can't entirely hear - something about things borrowed from _Runway_ ’s closet and the girl being too stupid to recognize what could never look right on such a fat, inelegant creature.

The Sachs girl crumples, obviously confused and now about to cry, and then Miranda says the words that make Jacqueline's entire year.

“To think, I still foolishly held you in a higher regard than the others." Punctuates the dismissal with a small, disinterested Priestly gesture.

The fact that Miranda's disappointed words are directed at Sachs rather than Fuller is a turn of events sweeter than honey, Jacqueline decides. Knows with certainty that no man could ever wound a woman to the same depths that another woman can.

 

6.

Miranda is forced to entertain the idea of retirement after her second stroke. The first was small and kind enough to come during the holiday season, so Miranda covered the medical leave with excuses about spending more time with the girls while they were home from college.

But the second one... The second one came during the ramp up to fashion week and left her with occasional tremors. She is still able to do the job - _her mind is fine and sharp and lethal, goddamnit_. But the idea being unable to control the tremors in public, it repulses her. She refuses to be seen as weak. An old, sick woman whose illness sells other editors' magazines.

She quietly meets with her accountants. Has made more than enough mistakes in the realm of not being forthcoming with her children that she's learned her lesson there; calls Caroline and then Cassidy. Talk to them but also listens. Feels grateful and proud and awed when both girls make valid points regarding the pros and cons of retirement.

Things are already in motion when the unthinkable happens. She falls down in the women's washroom at a gala. Loses control of her hands and then feels her legs go numb. Topples right over in her heels, splayed out on the marble floor because she's not close enough to the sink to catch herself.

She can't tell whether she's hurt. She's simply too shaken, lying there at an awkward angle, her face and dress pressed against an unclear floor and countless people outside. People outside, waiting to use the restroom because Miranda Priestly does not share space. It would be amusing to her, were she not so close to hyperventilating. The idea of being found like this. Dress wrinkled. Makeup smudged. An old, sick, pathetic woman lying on a bathroom floor. It's shattering. Paralyzing. 

She can't get up.

_She can't get up._

When she hears the bathroom door crack open, then quickly close, Miranda becomes oddly calm. Feels like she may, perhaps, even be separate or above her own body. Divorced from the embarrassment that is presently befalling her.

"Miranda?"

The voice is familiar. Kind. She's quite certain that this makes it all the worse.

"Miranda, I'm sure you prefer that I not call 911. But to avoid that, I'm going to need you to respond to me. Okay? Please, respond to me, Miranda."

"What is this event coming to that they are inviting _newspaper_ reporters to it," Miranda manages. Surprises herself with how bitchy she's able to sound, even in this position.

"Oh, good," Andrea Sachs sighs. "You're well enough to insult me. That's a relief."

"May I ask who else has seen me in my present state?" she inquires in a detached voice. Moves one leg and then another. Feels a severe twinge in her right hip, but nothing like a broken bone.

"No one else," Andrea replies. "There was a long line of of us out there, but I got worried when you took so long. I shooed everyone else off to another powder room."

"Oh?" Miranda groans. Pulls herself up to halfway sitting.

"I told them I was going to tell you off for taking so long with your lipstick or whatever. Ya know, speak truth to power... Everyone else fled in anticipation of your wrath."

An impressive maneuver. If Miranda's hip didn't hurt like hell and she wasn't dreading standing up, she might even feel amused.

"Is there a private doctor I can call for you?" the woman offers, and Miranda bristles.

" _No_."

"I have a notepad in my clutch," Andrea rolls her eyes. "We can write a quick and dirty NDA on it if you like. Me talking about this can result in bankruptcy, death by sharks. I don't care. Just let me call someone for you."

"I have a private physician," Miranda admits. Braces herself against the other woman's arm and tries to leverage herself up. "I'll put in five minutes here and then go straight to her office."

Miranda doesn't have the power to get to her feet on her own. Not in heels, with an aching hip. She relents as Andrea slides one arm around the silk of her bodice, pulling her up.

"Thank you," she dismisses, "but that is quite enough." Insists on standing on her own two feet as she surveys the significant damage to her hair and makeup. Her dress, thank heavens, appears unmarred.

She feels unreasonably annoyed when Andrea remains, watching her fix her hair. Annoyance that melts into humiliation when her hand shakes just enough to ruin her efforts on her lipstick.

But Andrea doesn't comment or asks questions. Simply grabs a toilette and dabs away the stray pigment. Removes the lipstick tube from Miranda's trembling hand and takes over.

"Tilt your head," Andrea says calmly, and Miranda does so. Closes her eyes and surrenders to the grace of a woman she once mocked in appearance, intellect, and capacity. Knows that no recommendation in the world could make up for memory of those insults.

How many others would delight in the public revenge made possible by Miranda's present state?

"Done," Andrea pronounces. "La Priestly is restored."

"Acceptable," Miranda decides, glancing in the mirror. Adds, by force of will, "thank you." 

"Save your thanks for what happens after we leave the bathroom, when I feign being terrorized and defeated, while you swan out looking perfect and lethal."

"Lethal," Miranda repeats. Closes her eyes and shakes her head. "I do not know that I have 'lethal' in me at the moment."

"Sure you do," Andrea breezes. Deliberately smears her own eye makeup with water from the sink. Affects a pretty decent approximation of damage done by crying.  A shame, Miranda thinks, given how fetching Andrea looked this evening. "Just pretend I've presented you with a tepid cup of coffee."

"You're fired," Miranda hisses. Achieves the perfect balance of sounding bored and murderous.

"See," Andrea laughs. Squeezes Miranda's hand.  "Nothin' to it."

. . .

 


	5. Badass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small caution that this chapter briefly alludes to bullying and contains a slur that may trigger some. I've elected not to put up a general warning but thought to put a note here. Would hate for anyone to be caught by surprise, no less so given the depressing political climate.
> 
> \- Pax, Ms. Justlikeapapercut

 

 

  

 

* * *

_I need noise_  
_I need the buzz of a sub_  
_need the crack of a whip_  
_need some blood in the cut_

\- K.Flay, "Blood in the Cut"

* * *

 

 

1.

Emily never goes to school dances. Too dedicated a student to go around chasing boys, worry about who's going to ask her out. She certainly wouldn't stand for some nervous date putting his sweaty hands against her nice new dress when it came for them to dance. Not that Emily's parents could ever afford to buy her a new dress anyway. 

Which is entirely beside the point. 

She moves to London for school. Studies day and night, and works several odd jobs to get by. She dodges her family's phone calls except for Sunday's, when she accepts the inevitable imposition of family chats.

"Regina's crying," her mother tells her. There's been a door slamming in the background and then her father's muffled voice.

"Regina's always crying," Emily rolls her eyes. "You never let me carry on the way she does."

It's a long, winding story as always, but it turns out her younger sister has gone to three school dances in the same dress and has another one coming up.

"I wish we could..." her mother says but doesn't finish.

Money, Emily knows. Her contempt of her family's poverty - their meager, eked out existence - always comes in waves. She fails to feel scornful at this particular moment, however.

"It's a beautiful dress, mum," Emily soothes when her mother starts to sob. "Such a chic blue against Regina's coloring."

Emily goes to the library the next day and comes out hauling a stack of sewing books. Eats potatoes for two weeks in order to save a bit of money, then goes and buys some fabric.

"It's gorgeous!" Regina shouts into the phone.

"You take proper care of it," Emily says sternly. "That silk is very tender."

Her father worries Emily paid too much for the dress, that now she'll be in a bind paying her bills.

"A school chum gave it to me," she lies. "Didn't spend a quid on it."

"The bodice is beautiful," her mother says when she comes back on the phone. Her voice is muffled like she's trying to whisper. "I tried to sew like that for you girls but could never manage. Let alone with silk."

"Crisis averted," Emily huffs. Doesn't admit to anything.

 

2.

"How are we not running this?" Andy demands. Is now wise enough to know better than causing a scene in her editor's office, but is also running on coffee rather than sleep.

Greg closes the door with a glare to the interested faces behind it. Comes around to his desk and sits on top of it.

"Andy," he sighs. "You saw who we endorsed, yeah? That big, eye-catching headline last month?"

"So we endorsed him," Andy says. "That was before we knew he embezzled public funds. But now we do and we get to break the story first."

Greg looks at her pointedly and for a minute it feels like she's back at _Runway_. Trying to understand a dialect made up entirely of silent pauses.

"We're not running it," Andy surmises. "Because we endorsed him." She rubs her face. "And because if we bury it, he'll owe us."

"See," Greg smiles, not unkindly. "That wasn't so hard."

"I don't understand," she starts again. Angrier now. "You've been letting me chase this story for months... I came in here and asked you and you gave me that grand speech about truth. About _professional duty._ You gave me your damn blessing!"

"Yeah," Greg acknowledges. "And you've surprised me. Because, Andy...  I never thought you'd ever find enough evidence to put those allegations in print."

She laughs. Maybe it's the exhaustion or maybe it's plain denial, but Andy closes her eyes. Gives a long, mirthless chuckle.

"I think in political terms this makes me a loose end," Andy ventures and gives her boss a dark smile. Bears her teeth. "How is it that you're going to tie me up?"

"Well there's the carrot method," Greg replies. "You give me all your notes and forgot all about this. Then I let you work on whatever the hell you want. Find a way to bump you further up the ladder."

"I assume there's a stick method, too," Andy challenges. "In the event I don't find the carrot appetizing."

"I like you, Andy," Greg says now and looks saddened. "I have always rooted for you... Please choose be a teamplayer on this. Because if you don't, then I have to make your professional life very hard. Hard... and tragically short."

Andy tells him she'll think about it. Cancels her plans with Doug that night in favor of staying home and eating takeout lo mein by herself. Decides to drink all the wine she has in her apartment, even the cooking sherry.

She wakes up with a headache and a couple bruises of mysterious origin, but knows what she has to do. Spends the morning planning and getting organized. Goes into work and gives Greg all of her notes. Drops them on his desk with an angry thud.

"It's easier this way," Greg promises, "even if you don't see it now." Gives her a once over as she glowers at him. "This is a bad day for you, so I'm going to ignore the fact that you look like you woke up still inside the bottle... Go home. Get some sleep. Don't pull this shit on Monday."

She does what she's told. Comes back after the weekend and starts research for another story. Puts her head down and doesn't make waves.

It's exactly a month before her story appears in a rival paper, her new byline printed below it.

It's a Monday when the story break. But Andy's at home, organizing all the stuff she brought home over the weekend from the _Mirror,_ so there'd be no need to go back.

"We had a deal," Greg yells at her over the phone. Calls her from a number she's never seen before.

"You really should have planned for this possibility," Andy tsks at him. Holds up her Treasure Troll pencil and wonders whether she should try to look more serious at her new job at the _Times._

 She hangs up on Greg. She's not at all surprised that he underestimated her as it's clearly what's she'd banked on. Still, she's a tad amazed he'd be so shortsighted enough to trust her given the situation.

"Does a troll pencil say 'screw with me, I'm from Ohio'?" she asks Doug when he stops by to take her to dinner.

"I feel like there's no right answer to this," Doug cringes.

"I think it says, 'I'm a badass but have a sense of whimsy'," Andy decides. Puts one hand on her hip.

"Have you and your whimsy been drinking wine without me?" Doug guesses.

"One glass," Andy defends and Doug just looks at her. "Two glasses," she amends. "I'm celebrating!"

"Let's get some food in you," he laughs. "But maybe leave the Treasure Troll here. Hm, badass?"

 

3.

Nigel gets beat up a lot as a kid. His brothers try to protect him even if they tease him too, but his brothers can't always be there.

Maybe some of the boys who beat him up are more like Nigel than unlike him. Maybe they just do better at hiding who they are. Pretend to hate Broadway and like baseball. Don't make a fuss if someone gets mud on the nice new pants their mother sewed them.

It takes forever, but Nigel grows up. Gets the hell out of his small, Italian neighborhood and works hard to erase his New Jersey accent. Helps his mother when his father dies but doesn't talk about his hometown or how alone he felt there. Puts as much distance as he can between himself and that scared, awkward kid who got bullied for wearing ties to school.

"I hate when they send us these faggoty models," Nigels hears a designer complain at a casting. "We're shooting menswear here."

The male model in question is only ten feet away, probably about nineteen and looks like he'd like to sink through the floor. And though Nigel wants to run, wants to shout, he's there on behalf of _Runway_ and thus does neither of those things.  Just pulls the model aside afterward. Has a chat with him and hands him his business card along with his heartfelt apology.

"Every jacket is the same," Miranda complains about the same designer six months later, after photos of his spring line prove variations on 'flat' and 'staid'.

"His taste level is lacking," Nigel says to her. Knows that Miranda doesn't like opinionated people who aren't her but takes that big, fat risk anyway. "People who lack substance cannot produce art. Maybe beautiful accidents on a fluke, but that's all their successes are."

Miranda's eyes narrow, considering him in that way she has. Usually right before she annihilates.

"Since you feel so strongly," she says and sets the photos aside, "you may inform him of our decision not to include him in the March issue."

It isn't long before Nigel runs into the designer at a party in Tribecca, both of them waiting to grab a drink.

"I just don't understand," the man laments. "I've been very loyal to _Runway_."

"We're going in a different direction," Nigel shrugs. Adds with a smile, "more faggoty."

 

4.

Irv tries to negotiate down Miranda's salary, citing the economy. Miranda responds by highlighting the circulation numbers and ad revenue, neither of which have significantly dropped, unlike their competitors.

"It seems my leadership is at a premium," Miranda comments. "Given _the economy_."

The board agrees and Irv grits his teeth while Miranda smiles serenely.

"But don't we have more than enough money?" Caroline asks when they're talking about it over dinner.

The girls are old enough that Miranda has started to talk business with them. Not the murky depths of power and the things she does to keep it. But general topics like politics and leadership. As of tonight, issues of compensation.

"We have enough money for you girls to live long, contented lives. Even if I never earned another penny," Miranda agrees.

"So why does it matter?" Cassidy asks.

"Because money is a kind of power," Miranda explains. "But it's also directly related to power. If I'm working very hard - spending time away from my family - to make the magazine a success, then that success is making other people money. If I let them pay me less when I'm doing my job well, I'm allowing myself to be given less than my due."

"Does this mean that we're not important people if we don't make a lot of money as adults?" Caroline asks.

"I didn't say that," Miranda hedges. "But no matter what, it's important for you girls to realize your worth and fight for it. Financially and otherwise. You must not let anyone give you less than your due, because believe me when I tell you that they will try. More so, unfortunately, given that you're women."

"Why don't you talk about this stuff in _Runway_?" Caroline puzzles.

"Darling, it's a fashion magazine," Miranda shakes her head. "And use a better word than _stuff_."

 "You talk about art. Other things besides fashion," Caroline keeps on. "I don't know why the magazine can't talk about this, too."

"It's not..." Miranda rubs her temples. Struggles with how to tell her daughters that _actual_ feminism still isn't fashionable _._ Merely the appearance of feminism; lip-service to the cause.

She goes into her study that night and craps the upcoming issue's letter from editor. Pens a new one about the importance of self-value; the need for women to fight for themselves even if it makes them unpopular, earns them the label of 'difficult'.

Irv throws a fit. The Board makes vague, nervous sounds when she meets with them.

Miranda ignores them. Marches ever forward.

 

5.

"Since when does Miranda Priestly care about more than hemlines?" someone at that the _Times_ says to Andy Sachs months later. They're all in the bullpen working when the colleague in question holds up the current issue of _Runway_ , the younger woman's expression somewhere between puzzlement and a sneer. 

"Lemme see," Andy says. She reads Miranda's editor's note twice over before folding the magazine closed with care. Doesn't engage with her colleague's mockery. Finds such arrogance tedious.

But two nights later Andy gets into bed with her laptop. Writes an email to Miranda that the editor will surely never read, probably never even be informed of in the first place. Puts into words every single shining fleck of gratitude she feels for Miranda Priestly. Apologizes that cowardice kept that gratitude silent for far too long.

_I didn't think serious reporters were allowed to read fashion magazines_ , says the reply email Andy gets at 5:03 in the morning, and from Miranda's personal address.

_I guess I'm just contrary that way_ , Andy writes back, her tongue firmly in her cheek. _Some might even call me 'difficult'._

The reply Andy gets to that is almost instantaneous. Makes her smile from ear to ear, sitting alone in her apartment before the sun has even thought to rise.

_I have every faith that one day you'll be so difficult as to be considered impossible, Andrea_.

 

 

6.

Caroline's only dated two boys before she hooks up with Jacob. Two boys who never counted, Caroline decides, because they barely did more than kiss and she kind of only dated them to know what it was like to have a boyfriend and then dump someone.

Her sister hates Jacob. Insists on calling him 'Major Douche', which makes their mom complain and roll her eyes. But Cass never gets in any _real_ trouble for it - not since their mom dislikes him, too.

The funny thing is, Caroline doesn't even know how to define what it is that she likes so much about him. She's way smarter than he is and she knows he isn't very nice to most people. And he's cute, yeah, but not at all the hottest guy at Dalton.

It's that Jacob has charisma, Caroline realizes. She's in the middle of trying to explain it to her mother when that particular word occurs to her.

"He has this effect on people," she says to her mom in the back of the town car. "He's like you." But her mom just goes very quiet and sucks in a deep breath. Doesn't say another word the whole ride to the restaurant.

She's been dating Jacob for two months when he starts asking for nude pictures. And at first she says no, absolutely not. But after another month of dating she thinks maybe? Maybe it's just what you're supposed to do?

Thank god Cassidy talks her out of it though, because right after that Caroline finds out that Jacob's been bragging to other guys that's he's going to score the first nude pic of a Priestly twin. Gets sent the screen cap of a gross text conversation Jacob had with another guy. Feels this horrible  pain in her stomach. Like she's going to throw up and cry all at once.

She goes home early from school. Cries her eyes out. Wants to text Jacob and dump him - tell him how horrible he is and how much he hurt her and how she doesn't give a shit if dies in a fire.

Cassidy talks her out of it. Even takes away her phone. Sleeps in Caroline's bed that night like when they were little. Hugs her and pets her hair until they both fall asleep.

Caroline doesn't dump Jacob the next day. Texts him the next night instead and says she's been thinking about his picture idea. How she kind of wants to, but is ' _just, like, really really shy_ '. It takes about ten minutes before the idiot starts sending pictures of himself. Cassidy is sitting beside her on the couch, rolling her eyes. Wonders out loud if boys ever grow out of being stupid and gross.

The next day is Friday and Caroline gets up early. Picks out a new outfit she's been saving and blows her hair out just the way she likes. Spends twenty minutes doing her eyeliner so that both sides are perfectly symmetrical, her hand patient and steady.

She gets to school at the same time she always does, but by now everyone's talking about Jacob in the hallway and a few people stop to stare at her. She pretends not to notice, her head high and the pointed heels of her boots clicking softly down the hall.

"You're a bitch!" Jacob screams at her when he sees her. Is red faced and looks like he's maybe been crying, but Caroline remains perfectly calm - walks around him and into her class when he starts yelling about his parents, lawyers, the police, her getting expelled.

She knows better. Read through the relevant state laws and Dalton policies, then made very sure not to violate either. And even then... they'd still have to prove she's the one who anonymously posted that picture of Jacob with his pants down, now wouldn't they?

Her next class is calculus and she has a test. A midterm she's been dreading.

"Done so soon, Miss Priestly?" her teacher asks when she finishes first. Isn't being a jerk to her, Caroline knows. More like worried about her bombing now, after she's busted her tail to pull her grade up to a B.

"Nailed it," Caroline says.

Drops the test on the desk. Knows she killed it.

 

7.

Asil spends ten minutes getting through security at Elias-Clarke and then another twenty listening to the people in HR debate among themselves about where to send her.

"The dragon still needs another assistant," one of them says. "She fired that one on Tuesday because she misspelled the capital of a country no one's ever heard of."

"I don't think..." a second one says. An attractive blond woman who looks Asil up and down with obvious skepticism.

"No choice," a third one says with clout. "She needs an assistant, and we have a warm pile of flesh to offer her."

Asil tries to hide her cringe here.

"Eleventh floor," the first one says. Hands Asil a phone loaded with documents, policies. "Ask for Nicholas."

Asil's mouth falls open when she gets to the eleventh floor, the doors sliding open to reveal the sleek alloy logo for _Think_.

"You there," a male voice calls to her. "Do you have business here or are you just practicing your guppy impression?"

The man is about her age. Young, professional looking. He's typing at frantic speeds on two different devices, somehow radiating stress despite that he's perfectly expressionless.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Asil smiles. "I'm here - well, I'm a new temp and have been sent here to fill an assistant position. I'm supposed to talk to Nicholas?"

"Lucky me," the man - apparently Nicholas - sighs. Holds out his hand for her phone. "You've never worked in any genre of media." It isn't a question although it almost sounds like one.

Asil shakes her head, gives him her most charming smile.

"God," Nicholas whines. Appears to completely fall apart, hands pressed over his eyes. "I can't do this today. Everything is late and I'm all by myself, and you -" He stops, waves a dismissive hand in her direction. "I'm sure you're a very capable person, but you're of no help to me."

Asil doesn't know how she's already be fired from a job she hasn't started, let alone one that no one has even defined for her. She opens her mouth to protest.

"Oh for fuck's sake, she's here!" Nicholas cries when one of his many devices beeps. Begins running around, putting things in order. Turning on digital displays scrolling with news tickers, numbers.

"Can I help you?" Asil asks.

"Turn on the lamp in her office," Nicholas shouts, pointing to an office behind the outer one. It's dark but Asil can see it's a large, well appointed space. Antique desk, large windows. A framed photograph of -

_Oh fuck._

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck._  

There is no way, Asil thinks. No fucking way she was sent here to be Andrea Sachs' assistant but already mucked it up.

" _Which_ lamp?" Asil calls and feels panicked herself now. The office has about a dozen different lamps in it, all of various shapes and sizes.

"The Tiffany one! With the orange glass!" 

She does and the light immediately changes the room, somehow softens it. Asil just stands there for a moment, taking in the decor. The  two framed issues of _Runway_ (first and last, Asil guesses) hanging next to various well-awarded _Think_ articles.

"Hurry!" Nicholas pleads and Asil hightails it out of there.

"What else?" Asil asks him. Wants to tell him that he needs to breathe or he's going to pass out.

"Just be, like, really quiet when she comes in," Nicholas begs her. "I will find something for you and get this all straightened out, but you have to help me here."

Asil bristles. Feels torn. She doesn't want to make this guy's life harder but she also refuses to be dismissed.

None of it matters ten seconds later because the elevator doors ding and Andrea Sachs - Asil's living, breathing hero in the freaking flesh - strides out of them looking flawless and regal and maybe kind of terrifying.

"I got a phone call that they're going to push up the confirmation hearings for Jackson," the editor says immediately, and Asil watches as Nicholas helps her out of her coat. "So Nia needs be in DC five days earlier, which means that Ezra will have to cover the thing in Switzerland and then immediately fly back to Boston. Inform Matthew that I'm tired of doing his job when political contacts reach out to me rather than him at five o'clock in the morning. If he can't figure out why he isn't the one they call, I will kindly hire someone who is able to solve that particular puzzle."

_Yikes_ , Asil thinks. Openly stares while the editor continues an impossibly long list, then adjusts her draped silk blouse. The garment looks expensive,  like it came from some French designer's spring collection. But something about the print is too specific for it to be a European designer's attempt at 'Asian inspired.'

"And who are you?"

Asil almost misses the question because the editor asks it as she walks right past her and into her office. Asil gapes and looks at Nicholas who makes a frantic shooing motion, mouthing the word ' _hurry_ '.

"My name is Asil Farage," she begins. Stands awkwardly in the open doorway.

"Syrian," the editor states more than asks. Apparently an office-wide trait. Continues reading something on her screen rather than looking at Asil.

" _American_ ," Asil corrects. Hates that her kneejerk reaction to that is one of anger and defense.

"My mistake," the editor offers. Pauses her reading to look Asil up and down. "You've been sent here as a temp?"

"They didn't tell me where they were sending me," Asil admits. "Just gave me the floor."

"Lucky you, ending up here. You could have been sent to _Auto Universe_."

Asil doesn't understand the reference - thinks maybe it's a joke by the lilt of amusement in the woman's voice. Feels ignored and maybe mocked, but has felt this way many times in her twenty-three year old life.  She refuses to back down now.

"Miss Sachs-"

"Andrea," the editor corrects with a flashing glare.

"Andrea," Asil amends. "I don't have  any work experience in media or publishing. But I'm smart and I'm observant. I also have a knowledge base that would be difficult to teach. For example, I would bet all of the money in my bank account that the blouse you're wearing came from Laos or maybe Cambodia, not some European runway."

"How is my blouse relevant?" the editor challenges.

"Details matter. The smaller, the more important and yet the more the likely to be missed."

Andrea sighs. Takes off her glasses and turns the screen she's been reading entirely away from her desk. She seems tired and resigned now; an inversion of the woman Asil met minutes earlier in front of the elevator.

"Do you know what the capital of Micronesia is?" Andrea asks. She doesn't appear to take any sadistic joy in offering such a test.

"Palikir," Asil replies. "And it's spelled with one 'a' and two 'i's."

"And I'm sure you have a great work ethic, learn quickly. Still say 'please' and 'thank you' even when others snarl at you." She pauses with a shrug, though the most elegant one Asil has ever seen. "You probably even know the name for the shade of blue that's dominant in that painting to your right."

"Cerulean," Asil confirms after she looks. Fails to suppress her victorious grin.

"I'm going to a dreadfully awful thing to you, Asil," Andrea warns her ominously. Slips her glasses back on. "I'm going to hire you as my second assistant. Which means that your personal life as you know it is going to implode and you will slowly transform into someone resembling that professionally efficient, giant ball of stress you met out in reception." She finishes with a gesture toward Nicholas' desk.

"Thank you," Asil beams. She can't help it.

"Please remember this feeling of gratitude when you're replacing sleep with coffee and do not have time time to keep even the smallest house plant alive," Andrea advises. Waves her away. "Now go help Nicholas. I can feel his stress pulsating through the wall and it's... distracting me."

Asil turns on her heel. Marches ever forward.

. . .

 

 

 


	6. Timing

 

* * *

 

 _Remember that time_  
_you wrote me two hundred letters,_  
_never once to a single reply?_  
_Remember they all referenced a love that wasn’t real,_  
_considering we talked maybe one or two times_

\- Ron Gallo, "Young Lady, You're Scaring Me"

* * *

 

 

 

1.

Miranda comes home at half past ten on the evening of her second husband's fortieth birthday. Feels tired - so truly, painfully tired- but also swelled with excitement. Tucks her little bag of surprises under her arm as she pushes open her front door. Lets herself bask in this rare feeling of hope.

Greg isn't much of a drinker, a trait she's always found attractive, but tonight he's apparently made an exception. Sits in their living room with an already empty bottle of wine and an uncapped bottle of expensive Irish whiskey spread out before him.

"Here she is, my blushing bride," he singsongs. "Happy birthday to fucking me."

He lights into her for her lateness, her narcissism, her coldness. Drunkenly enumerates her many failures as a wife before saying he wants a divorce.

"You'll have it," Miranda promises. Says it in a voice devoid of pain even though she's shaking.

She tosses his wrapped presents on the couch. Doesn't care whether he opens them while he's drunk or later when he's sober. Doesn't care at all what he feels when he looks at the box of cigars, the positive pregnancy test she saved for him.

 

2.

Miranda has a hard and fast rule against employees making personal calls at work. There's work and then there's non-work; if someone can't properly separate the two, then they're too stupid to be working at _Runway_.

"Nate, I can't," Miranda hears Andrea say. "I'm working."

It's late in the evening and Miranda has been looking at budget numbers while she waits for the Book to be prepared. She hasn't let Andrea go even though she doesn't exactly have any more work to give her. Doesn't particularly care what the girl does now, so long as she's quiet and answers the phones.

"Well this is important to me, " Andrea now says angrily. Her muffled voice drifts in from the executive kitchen, Miranda paused in an adjoining hallway.

It's an argument Miranda has had with three different husbands across multiple decades, but she tells herself that she has no sympathy for Andrea. The girl has to figure out the choice before her sooner or later. The later it is, the more opportunities she'll squander away.

She expects Andrea to brood when she returns to her desk, but instead her second assistant sits back down and dives into a project she's apparently assigned herself.

"Andrea," Miranda says in her usual murmur, and Andrea appears immediately. "Have I assigned you a task that I've forgotten?"

"The expense reporting is getting more complicated next month," the girl replies. "I'm starting on the new templates."

"That’s Emily's job," Miranda says, as if Andrea didn't know this. Expects her to apologize for overstepping, at least appear uncertain. But instead Andrea remains calmly standing there, awaiting further instructions. "Finish it up then," Miranda directs. Knows that she'll do a better job of it than Emily anyway. One less mess to be cleaned up in the future.

"In here," Miranda calls from the den, three days later. It's Friday evening and the front door has just clicked open and then softly closed, Andrea arriving with the Book.

"Grand plans for the weekend?" Miranda asks for reasons she can't really fathom. Watches Andrea's eyes grow large in surprise.

"Mostly catching up on sleep," Andrea replies.

"Youth is wasted on the young," Miranda laments. Opens the Book and glares at a layout that's still slightly off.

"What about you?" Andrea asks, and Miranda looks up at her pointedly. "Any plans?" the girl squeaks.

Tomorrow Miranda will have the same fight with Stephen that she always has when he returns home from Hong Kong, and Sunday one or both of her girls will accuse her of never being home.

"Correcting my employees mistakes," Miranda says because it's not a lie. The only truth she wishes to share.

"Of course," Andrea smiles before her purse begins to buzz. The boyfriend, Miranda assumes.

"The Phillip Lim layout is still flirting with mediocre," Miranda says. Doesn't just let Andrea be on her way as she should.

"How will you fix it?" Andrea asks. Sounds genuinely curious.

Miranda shows her the corrections and Andrea takes a seat. Ignores her purse as it buzzes over and over again.

"He's going to be angry at you," Miranda says. Breaks a half dozen of her own rules about personal lives and boundaries.

"He's always going to be angry," Andrea shrugs. "No matter what I do or how much I give up."

"Yes," Miranda replies. Feels relieved that Andrea has solved this riddle so soon.

 

3.

Andy feels grand about walking out on her job at _Runway_ , right up until she realizes there's the small matter of getting her things out of the hotel without further incident.

Miranda has a packed schedule the whole day, so its crazy for Andy to even consider the possibility that the woman is lying in wait in Andy's room, ready to rip her to shreds. Not that Andy can _entirely_ dismiss the fear as irrational, knowing how relentless Miranda is when angered.

Andy's room proves empty, thank God, and she's able to pack up her things in less than fifteen minutes. Practically sprints out of the lobby and down to the street where she tries to hail a cab. Gets frustrated and then infuriated when no less than three dozen taxis go by without so much as slowing for her.

She'll fucking walk then, Andy decides. Drags her heavy luggage behind her on the cobblestone street. Tries to put distance between herself and Miranda's sphere of influence as fast as her shaky legs can carry her.

It's been sixth blocks and who knows how many more failed attempts to hail a cab when Nigel pulls up beside her in a chauffeured car.

"Did you at least pack your teddy bear before you ran away from home?" he asks, and Andy fumes. Can't believe he's talking down to her after what Miranda just did to him.

"I'm not a child," Andy replies and huffs. "I'm making a choice."

"You're making a bad one," Nigel says. "Reconsider it and get in."

"I can't," Andy says. Feels her eyes well with tears. "She'll just fire me if I come back now."

"Don't be so certain," Nigel tells her. "She sent me collect you. Told me to do so _discretely_."

The instruction doesn't make sense if Miranda's having Andy brought back only to fire her. Then again, maybe she wants to lull Andy into a false sense of security just so she _can_ fire her.

"I fucked up," Andy admits. Cries in earnest now.

"Yeah," Nigel agrees. "But we're going to fix it before the mistake is permanent."

"Thank you for coming after me," Andy says, once she's in the car. Wonders how she'll ever explain to Miranda that she doesn't have her phone anymore.

"I didn't think I'd be able to find you," Nigel says. "I assumed you'd already be in a cab to the airport."

"Couldn't get one," Andy admits. Feels singularly grateful for the streak of bad luck.

 

4.

Andy keeps waving at Miranda Priestly when she sees her on the other side of the street.

Sometimes she feels insane doing it, and God knows she stops for a while after that first wave falls completely flat. But seeing Miranda and not acknowledging her feels worse, feels _rude, a_ nd though Andy can be accurately called a lot of unflattering things these days, 'rude' isn't one of them. She simply refuses. Not even if Miranda keeps on looking right through her like she's invisible - like's someone who never mattered in the first place.

 _I'll just be polite for the fucking both of us_ , Andy vows. Waves to Miranda from beneath her umbrella on the days it's pouring rain. Nods with her head on the evenings that her arms are too full of work to free up either hand.

It's been forty-one weeks since Paris, twenty-two waves, and thirteen head nods when Miranda's car slides beside Andy on a hot Saturday afternoon. Andy is completely exhausted from six straight days of work, sweaty and on her way to the subway when the car's rear window slides down.

"Not even a nod today?" Miranda asks. Sounds imperious and slighted, despite that she's never once returned one of Andy's polite acknowledgments.

"I wasn't entirely sure it was your car," Andy admits. Doesn't have it in her to get wound up about this. Is simply too tired and too hot, has had too bad of a week already.

"You're telling me didn't want to wave at just anyone?" Miranda asks, in a vaguely taunting fashion. The town car is still moving alongside Andy as she continues to walk, its slow creep part comedic, part sinister. Andy decides to give the driver - probably Roy - a break. Comes to a halt on the sidewalk.

"I'm kinda picky about my waving," Andy deadpans. "I didn't want to go giving away my good will to some jerky hedgefund guy by accident, ya know?"

She isn't sure if she's trying to amuse Miranda or goad her, though the woman appears unmoved either way. Andy lets go of a deep breath, not sure why she thought to try.

"Your satchel appears heavy," Miranda says now. "Would you care for a ride?'

"I'd hate to trouble you," Andy replies. Actually means it, despite the feeling of hope that's bloomed in her chest.

"You and your manners are nothing but trouble," Miranda rolls her yes. Adds in a softer tone, "please, get in anyway."

Andy has eight more miserable blocks to go and her bag _is_ heavy. She'd be a fool to say no, no matter the thumping of heart in her ears.

She melts into a grateful puddle the moment she buckles her seat-belt. The leather seat is mercifully cold, the cycling air arctic.

"You have impeccable timing," Andy says, and the car pulls out from the street.

 

5.

Miranda's divorce drags on and on, though it's a small consolation that the whole  ordeal involves being in the same room as Stephen on only two occasions.

The first time is at the start of arbitration. Both of them sitting across from each other in room filled with yellow fluorescent light and ugly, ergonomically sound black chairs. Stephen avoids eye contact like he can't stand to look at her. Glares and seethes the few times their eyes actually meet. He hates her now and he wants her to know it, but this hatred only gives Miranda more power. She favors him with her coldest, most disinterested smile. Leaves the meeting afternoon meeting feeling hyper-focused. Goes back to the office and gets in another six solidly productive hours of work.

The next time is eight months later and not at all what she expects. Gone is all the rage Stephen had months ago, and in its place a new, unrecognizable species of disinterest. Miranda gives him her best frosty glare and he looks back at her the way he would a stranger on the street whose eyes he's happened to meet. She's nothing to him now, she realizes with a flash of horror. Stumbles out of the meeting feeling worse than the night in Paris when he first faxed her the papers. 

She'd planned to go back to the office, her car now coming to a stop in front of Elias-Clarke. But Miranda doesn't get out, can't get out. Sits still in her seat for minutes on end, Roy silent all the while, his confusion wordless given his very reasonable fear.

Miranda is deep in her own thoughts, wouldn't have noticed Andrea Sachs walking by if Roy's head hadn't suddenly moved to track her movement on the sidewalk beside them. But notice now she does.

"No wave today I guess," Roy says with an air of disappointment, after Andrea stops and takes note of the car without her usual, perfunctory greeting.

It's been months of Andrea Sachs dogged observation of good manners, a compunction Miranda initially judged a mark of emotional instability. Even worried the girl's apparent fixation would later prove problematic. But then autumn turned into winter, winter into spring. And here it is, the middle of summer, and Miranda is divorced - _again -_ but Andrea Sachs has done nothing but continue to politely acknowledge Miranda's existence.

"Hm," Miranda says. A dangerous sound that makes her driver straighten in his seat.

"She probably wasn't sure it was your car," Roy says in a hurry. Appears to brace himself.

"Pull forward," Miranda orders. "Slowly."

Andrea doesn't jump at Miranda's voice. Doesn't fall all over herself trying to be pleasant, but also doesn't take the bait when Miranda courts her ire.

"You have impeccable timing," Andrea says once she's in the air conditioned car.

Miranda wants to tell her that no - no, in so many things she has always had horrible timing. She has always been too fast or too slow, and God knows never, ever ready at the right time.

"Quite," she concurs instead.

 

6.

Nigel leaves _Runway_.

It takes him five years after that crushing blow in Paris, and a hell of a lot of nervous drinking, but Nigel does it. Tells Miranda, who doesn't fight him. Doesn't threaten or glare at all. Merely adjusts her glasses and looks down at her desk. Tells him to find a suitable replacement.

Emily has come a long way in the art department, but she isn't ready yet. Nigel suggests two other options, both of whom Miranda shoots down. Hires someone herself - a man who Nigel thinks will never last. Sees _Runway_ as far more ad than art, to Nigel's deep chagrin.

 _Oh well_ , Nigel thinks to himself. Sets up his new working space at Monique Lhuillier's upper East Side office. Buys himself a tiny orchid for his window, confident that he'll now have time to tend to such a delicate thing.

Ten months go by and Nigel is... happy enough with the work. It's more limiting than he realized to navigate a more narrow aesthetic sensibility, the needs of a single house. But he likes the less frantic pace. Enjoys taking holidays off with his family, not that they're even particularly close.

He's stunned when Miranda announces her retirement from _Runway_ eleven months after his departure. She clearly has new irons in the fire, rumors swirling of two new business ventures, but even then it is unfathomable to think that the Priestly era is over.

Word in midtown is that the Elias-Clarke anointed choice for succession is Valentina Bianchi, present editor of Italian _Runway_. But at the last minute Bianchi apparently gets cold feet, very quietly backs out.

"No one in their right mind would want to follow Miranda Priestly," a woman from Italian _Runway_ confides to Nigel at a party. "Valentina would rather remain queen of a smaller fiefdom than go down in history as a failed empress."

"So who now?" Nigel asks. Feels a bit of schadenfreude when contemplating the level of panic within Elias-Clarke right now.

The wine sours in his mouth when the woman he's chatting up says the name of his replacement; a man who has yet to produce one compelling artistic theme in the entire year he's been at _Runway_.

"The Board is scared and wants someone they know," the woman shrugs. Then laughs in a mindless, stupid way when she says, "I'm sure it would have been you if you hadn't left."

 

7.

Cassidy is pretty awful at keeping secrets. Caroline tells her so all the time. But this is a good secret - a fun surprise - so Cassidy tries harder than usual to not to let it spill.

"I don't know," she hedges on the phone with Caroline. "Mom sounded so sad when I told her I was staying here for Thanksgiving."

"Okay, but think about how happy she'll be when stroll in with our luggage. Totally worth the lie."

Caroline has a point, Cassidy supposes. But she still doesn't like lying to their mom. Not when the lie so obviously hurt her.

The weather must agree with Cassidy's reservations because it doesn't cooperate with their plan to arrive early Wednesday morning. A sudden dump of snow means they get in late at night, drag off their respective planes feeling tired, cold, and grumpy.

"We should call," Cassidy says as they climb into a cab. "This still counts as surprising her."

"Mom always stays up this late anyway," Caroline dismisses. "Besides, I want to see her face!"

They have a hell of time getting their luggage up the stairs once they get to the townhouse. Realize they should have maybe tipped the driver more so he would have done this for them.

"Be quiet," Caroline hisses at her, and Cassidy glares.

"Your luggage is making noise too!"

"Shit, I don't have my key," Caroline whispers. Searches her tote again while Cassidy rolls her eyes, produces her own keys from her more efficient Fendi clutch.

"I'm so excited," Cassidy admits. Because she is now. Has missed her mother painfully while she's been away at school.

"I think she's downstairs,"  Caroline says, once they're in and have turned off the alarm.

"Kitchen," Cassidy discerns. Follows the sound of music and laughter to the far back of the house, feeling curious as she goes.

"Let's yell surprise," Caroline says, and holds Cassidy back. Gives a silent three-count using her fingers.

"Surprise!" Caroline yells and then promptly screams. Screams like she's been shot.

"Girls!" their mother screams.

"Jesus Christ!" Andy hollers. Pulls a kitchen towel - a regrettably small kitchen towel - from the counter to try and cover herself.

"Girls," their mother says again, now trying but failing to sound calm.

Caroline has turned away but Cassidy just closes her eyes. Is dismayed to find the image of Andy and her mom now burned into the back of her eyelids.

"Happy Thanksgiving, mother," Cassidy sighs dramatically. Hears Andy's snort of laughter, her mother's murmured distress.

 

 


	7. Denial

 

* * *

 _How do I get you out of my head,_  
_how do I get you back in my bed_

\- LP, "No Witness"

* * *

 

 

1.

"It'll get better now that your job at the _Mirror_ is starting," Doug says. And Andy nods, makes herself smile here even though the effort is a painful one.

She gets herself up every morning after that. Showers. Gets dressed. Goes into her new job and works just hard enough to avoid any attention.

And she pays her bills on time, every month. Even remembers to get that birthday card out for her grandpa so it can arrive in Ohio on time. So it's fine if she sleeps all weekend, spends most of her time at home in bed. Yeah, she's lost a little weight, isn't quite filling out her size-fours anymore. But she just hasn't been hungry lately, and that's fine. Sometimes people just aren't hungry.

"We just worry," her mom says on the phone one night, though Andy really doesn't understand what the problem is.

"I'm fine," Andy says. Because she's just tired and not hungry and sometimes feels hollowed out. "I'm good, honestly."

 

2.

Miranda is over the moon when she marries her first husband. Their wedding is a small one, but everyone comments on how lovely everything is. How unique and thoroughly Miranda.

Sure, their honeymoon isn't the stuff of bodice-rippers, nor is their sex life in general. But who wants to live in a trashy romance novel when one can have stability, a home life that supports one's ambitions?

Cassidy and Caroline make it easier, for a while. It's perfectly normal that parents with babies and demanding careers can't find time for sex. And Greg seems to get on without much complaint. Is sure to tuck the girls in every night and kiss Miranda on the cheek, no matter the hour she arrives home.

But then the girls' second birthday party comes to pass and Miranda walks in on her husband with one of the nannies. They're in the kitchen and nothing untoward is going on, but the girl (twenty-two if she's day) flushes red with humiliation and Greg shoves his head into the pantry, seems suddenly very intent on finding the candles Miranda knows are already on the cake.

"Already taken care of," Miranda tells her husband. Accepts a dutiful kiss on the cheek before she goes back out to entertain their guests.

 

3.

Nate tells himself he's being unreasonable about Andy's job. Listens to Doug when he tuts about falling into the same double-standard all straight men fall back on.

Nate doesn't want to be that guy, he doesn't. So he stops arguing with Andy every time she comes home late, doesn't ask questions when she starts wearing clothes that seem a little over the line for an office job.

"Not tonight," Andy tells him on a Saturday. She went to work in a tight black dress that absolutely costs more than their rent, has come home late with her hair up even though she had it down whenever she left this morning.

"We never have sex anymore," Nate complains. Doesn't care that he sounds pretty cliche right now.

"Whining isn't exactly a turn on," Andy snipes at him. Goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower.

She leaves the door half open, so Nate sees the crescent shaped bruise on her outer thigh whenever she shimmies out of her panties.

"What happened to your leg?" Nate asks when she comes back in.

"Huh?" Andy says, but clings to the towel she's wrapped around herself. Turns around abruptly to rummage in a drawer.

"Your thigh. There's a bruise."

"I tripped in my stilettos the other day," Andy tells him. Sounds just embarrassed enough for him to believe it. "Went down right in the lobby, with everyone watching me."

"That sucks," Nate says and puts his hands on her wet shoulders.

Tells himself to stop worrying about ridiculous things, like bite-shaped bruises and a perfume that isn't Andy's.

 

4.

Andy Sachs walks out in Paris, making Nigel's already hellacious week even worse, and Nigel dearly wishes a plague on the entire state of Ohio.

How childish and stupid, Nigel thinks thunderously. Revisits his rage whenever he has a moment, sitting next to Miranda at dinners or watching as designers fawn all over her. 

"Nigel," Miranda calls, and Nigel trails behind her, like the good soldier he still is.

Ridiculous, Nigel thinks again, remembering Andy's stunt. Stares at the back of Miranda's head and tells himself that of course - of course Miranda will pay him back.

 

5.

Andrea Sachs survives as second assistant, and then as first. And when her one-year tenure rolls around, Miranda decides it's too hectic a time to have a new first assistant taking over.

"Next month," Miranda tells her, and Andrea immediately nods. Rattles off all of Miranda's messages in order of priority, starting with Caroline's message about qualifying for the regional forensics tournament.

"I did forensics in high school," Andrea babbles. "We made up t-shirts that said, 'forensics: not dead bodies'."

Miranda gives her a look that telegraphs how unenthralled she is with this story, and Andrea shuts up. But of course Miranda files the information away. Decides that perhaps Andrea has some tips to offer Caroline about competing.

When the next month rolls around, Miranda decides this won't do either. Andrea cannot be allowed to skip off to Accessories or Editorial now, not when she's still helping Caroline prepare for her all-state competition.

"Perhaps in two months," Miranda tells Andrea in the car.

"Oh, of course," Andrea smiles. Goes back to texting someone (probably Caroline) as they snake their way through crowded streets.

"You'll stay through the first of the year," Miranda decides when they're in Paris. Andrea has now worked for Miranda just over nineteen months.

"Oh, but that'll mean the new girl will have to deal with the quarterlies," Andrea worries. They're in a car and Andreas hands her a scalding latte she's somehow acquired in the ten seconds Miranda wasn't watching her.

"That won't do," Miranda decides immediately.

"No," Andrea vehemently agrees.

No, that won't do at all, Miranda thinks, and the car keeps on moving.

 

6.

Andy thinks about Miranda Priestly a lot during her first week at the _Mirror_.

She thinks about how horrible Miranda is to everyone who's ever been loyal to her, how narcissistic and selfish a person she is. Feels appalled and self-righteous at the idea of Miranda claiming she saw even a glimmer of the same in Andy.

So Andy works hard, tells herself that's the only thing she needs to get ahead. Yep, all Andy needs is her work ethic and a good attitude. Maybe a little bit of luck.

And sure, Andy feels uncomfortable when some of her co-workers grumble about their boss telling everyone who'll listen about Andy's recommendation from Miranda Priestly. And yeah, Andy notices that the newsroom is overwhelmingly white. But it's mostly white and _male_ , she's quick to mentally add. Tells herself that she's blazing her own trail here.

So what if when Andy gets her first award, she finds out that Christian Thompson's best friend was on the panel for it? She only met the guy at one party, and anyway they only talked for maybe twenty minutes. And okay. _Okay._ The way she edges her way onto the staff at the _Times_ isn't without politics or a little bit of backstabbing. But the knife in question was a very tiny one, plus Andy is much better suited for the job.

"Andrea," Miranda greets upon their crossing paths three years later.

Andy is mid-conversation with a man she absolutely loathes but needs to keep as a source, and running into Miranda isn't an unpleasant distraction.

"You look great," Andy tells her. Decides it's hard to deny Miranda's gravity, no matter who you are or how well you know her.

"It's my job," Miranda admits, and Andy actually feels bad for her. Wonders why someone so smart can't see what she's become.

 

7.

 "You talk about her all the time," Caroline complains, and Miranda eyes her over the vegetables she's chopping.

"Whom?" Miranda puzzles.

"Andy," Caroline huffs, and Cassidy clears her throat.

" _Andrea_ ," Cassidy corrects. Says the name with so much emphasis that Miranda would have to be deaf to miss the sarcasm.

"She's my assistant," Miranda reminds them. "I see her everyday, so yes, she features in the stories about my work. Now finish your French homework."

. . .

"I wish she would stop wearing that blouse," Miranda says to Nigel, after Andrea closes the door. "It's too pale a green. The color washes her out."

"Pardon?" Nigel asks and almost misses the chair as he sits.

"Well," Miranda modifies. Watches Andrea through the glass doors of her office. "It's pale without being pale enough. She'd look perfectly fine in a soft pastel."

"Pale enough? I-she-" Nigel trails off, then looks as if he's about to cough. Perhaps even be ill.

"Are you feeling unwell?" Miranda accuses with agitation, because she has no time to be sick, now or ever. If Nigel has some stomach flu, he and his germs better get the hell out of her office this second.

"No," Nigel pronounces finally.

"Good, then where were we?" Miranda continues. Opens the dossier in front of her.

. . .

"When were you going to tell me?" her ex-husband demands through the phone, and Miranda holds the receiver away from her ear.

"The line is perfectly clear," Miranda snipes, "no need to raise your voice."

"Miranda, what you do and who you date is none of my business-"

"I should say not-"

"But it _is_ my business when you introduce them to my children," Greg growls. “It's not fair to drop someone on the girls so quickly after Stephen. And who _is_ this guy even?"

"What are you _on earth_ are your prattling about?" she demands.

" _Andy_ ," Greg yells. "Though I hope his full name is something more respectable than that."

"It is," Miranda replies. She's amused but still ignores the very strong impulse to laugh loudly in Greg's ear. "It's Andrea, if you must know."

"What?"

"She's an employee, Greg.  The girls just happen to be rather fond of her."

"Andrea," he repeats. Pauses in what Miranda assumes is humiliation, until she hears him begin to laugh.

 It's Miranda's turn to demand, “what?" now, but her ex-husband only laughs harder.

"That makes sense," Greg says, which Miranda doesn't understand at all. 

She hangs up on him. Hopes his new wife will send him off to the therapist he apparently needs these days.

 

 8.

Emily gives Andrea her best 'I don't feel sorry for you look' when the stupid twit comes out of Miranda's office looking flushed and out of sorts.

She better not cry, Emily thinks as she eyes Andrea over her desk. She'll kill her if she cries. She absolutely will.

But the day goes on and Andrea begins to look... oddly pleased with herself. Probably just relieved she didn't trip in her heels, Emily smirks. Doesn't give it another thought.

"Andrea," Miranda calls the next week, when she's leaving for a meeting at Philip Lim.

That's really the kind of thing Emily should be going to, but Miranda's just back from California and has been a holy terror all morning. She decides to consider it a victory that it's Andrea who'll be in the line of fire here.

The meetings must have gone well because Miranda comes back calmer and quieter. Andrea, helpless as she is, can't seem to string together a proper sentence now. Looks everywhere but at Emily.

Probably got a royal tongue lashing, Emily sniffs. Well, so much the better. Lord knows Miranda's happier after she's been able to chew on a bit of flesh.

"Andrea," Miranda calls softly the next week, and Emily almost has a stroke when the buffoon of a girl stays rooted in her chair.

"Perhaps you've lost your memory," Emily hisses. "But she calls and you come."

Andrea gives an ugly gulp. Rises onto unsteady legs and hooves her way into Miranda's office.

"Close the door," Miranda says impatiently, and Emily smiles to herself.

"Good," she pronounces to the empty outer office. Hopes Miranda really gives it to her this time.

 

9.

”Your roommate,” Andy’s dad says when they’re talking about Miranda’s birthday. 

“My girlfriend,” Andy corrects him again, but keeps on talking. 

“Your best friend,” her mother says the next month, and Andy wants to scream.

”My girlfriend,” Andy grits out. “Whom I live with.”

”Your ex-assistant,” someone at Chanel says.

”My partner,” Miranda glares. Goes right back to outlining her concerns about their Pre-Fall lineup. 

Three days later, there’s a gossip article in the _Post_ about Miranda having a new business venture, her rumored partner being an Elias-Clarke ex-employee.

”They cannot be this stupid,” Miranda fumes. 

“Wow,” Cassidy says glibly to Andy. “That’s the nicest thing she’s ever said about the _Post_.”

”Let’s not ever tell them,” Andy grumps. Pours them all more coffee. 

The next month Miranda pens a long op-ed that appears in a prominent newspaper. Its title uses the phrase “gay erasure” and in the body of her very personal essay she employs words like “lesbian,” “bisexual,” and “queer.”

Andy fist pumps. Nigel chortles. Caroline approvingly announces, "my new favorite phrase is ‘heterosexual tizzy.’ Please put it on my grave.”

Andy goes to pick up their usual Indian take-out that Friday. The guy makes sure to give them some fresh naan and Andy thanks him. He smiles back. Says, “anything for Miranda’s best pal.”

Andy trudges back home with the girls, bags of food hanging from three pairs of arms.

”Just gals,” Cassidy says, holding in her giggle. 

“Do _not_ ,” Andy hisses.

”Bein’ pals,” Caroline finishes with a laugh. Takes off at a clip when Andy starts to chase her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 and 7 are either in the same universe or in adjacent universes. Whichever floats your boat. Miranda's ex-husbands are, apparently, assholes in every universe I write. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Feel free to haunt me at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlikeapapercut (dwp blog) and https://thiswillonlyhurtalittle.tumblr.com/ (main blog).


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